Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Verona
The snow fell harder against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the private dining room, turning the Manhattan streetlights outside into hazy, golden halos. I stood frozen under Lorenzo Ricci’s gaze, the air trapped in my lungs. His fingers had stopped just shy of my skin, yet the heat radiating from his hand felt like a physical touch.
“You heard me,” he said, his voice dropping into a register so intimate it felt like a violation. He lowered his hand slowly, sliding it into the pocket of his trousers. “Or did you think my men outside the door were just waiters?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I managed to whisper, stepping back until my lower back hit the mahogany sideboard. The edge bit into my spine, grounding me slightly. “I’m a server. You’re a customer. If I broke protocol by speaking Italian, I apologize. I’ll go back to the kitchen. You won’t see me again.”
I tried to slide past him, moving toward the door, but a single step of his blocked my path entirely. He didn't touch me, but his sheer physical presence erected a wall I couldn't climb over.
“You think this is about a breach of restaurant etiquette?” A dark, humorless chuckle escaped his lips. He tilted his head, his slate-dark eyes dissecting me. “People in New York don’t flee their entire lives over a misplaced accent, Sophia. Or is that even your real name?”
My stomach plummeted. The word flee echoed in my skull. Had Marco said something? Had my meager employment application given away more than I realized? No, I had paid a forged-document broker in Queens cash for a clean social security number and a resume that placed me in Ohio for five years.
“My name is Sophia,” I said, lifting my chin, summoning a flicker of the defiance that had kept me alive during my darkest months in Boston. “And I don't appreciate being interrogated because I happen to speak a second language.”
Lorenzo’s expression darkened. The amusement vanished, replaced by an intensity that made the room feel as though it were shrinking. He stepped closer, invading my personal space until I had to tilt my head back fully to meet his eyes.
“Careful, ragazza,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet threat. “Defiance looks good on you, but it’s a dangerous game when you’re standing in a room with a man who owns the building, the street outside, and the precinct down the block.”
Before I could formulate a retort, my phone buzzed violently in my apron pocket—the second vibration of the night.
The hospice nurse.
My breath hitched. I forgot about Lorenzo, forgot about the danger, forgot about everything except the fragile thread holding my family together across the ocean. My hand instinctively dropped toward my pocket.
In a blur of motion, Lorenzo’s hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist with a grip of iron. His fingers were cool, hard, and unyielding.
“Don't,” he commanded.
“Let go of me!” I gasped, panic flaring hot in my chest, memories of Boston crashing over me—hands grabbing me, controlling me, trapping me against walls. The terror must have registered on my face because Lorenzo’s eyes flashed with a sudden, sharp realization.
He didn't release my wrist immediately, but his grip instantly softened, loosening from a shackle into a firm hold.
“Who is calling you at this hour?” he asked, his tone shifting from predatory to probing.
“It’s none of your business!” I snapped, wrenching my hand away. I stumbled back against the sideboard, clutching my wrist to my chest, my breathing coming in ragged gasps. “You have no right to touch me! You have no right to investigate me!”
Lorenzo stared at his empty hand for a fraction of a second before looking back up at me. His expression was unreadable, but the raw panic in my eyes seemed to have hit a nerve he hadn't expected.
“Everything in this city is my business, Sophia,” he said quietly, turning away from me and walking back toward the head of the table. He picked up his crystal glass, swirling the remaining scotch. “Especially when someone who speaks flawless northern Italian with a Veneto cadence drops out of the sky and starts serving steak to my associates under a fake paper trail.”
My blood ran cold. Fake paper trail.
“What did you say?” I whispered.
“My men are thorough,” Lorenzo said without looking at me, taking a slow sip of his drink. “By midnight, I will know your favorite color, the name of the elementary school you attended, and the exact reason why you look over your shoulder every time a black sedan drives down your street in Queens.”
Panic surged through my veins like liquid fire. If Lorenzo Ricci dug into my past, he wouldn't just find my fake Social Security number; he might stumble across the police reports in Boston, or worse, my ex-boyfriend Marcus, who still had connections to low-level crews up north. And if Marcus found me—if he tracked me to New York through a high-profile investigation by a man like Ricci—I wouldn't survive the winter.
I bolted.
I didn't use the door handle; I threw my weight against the heavy wood, bursting out into the hallway before Lorenzo could react.
“Sophia!” His voice cracked behind me, sharp and commanding.
I didn't look back. I sprinted down the narrow corridor, past the astounded eyes of the kitchen staff, straight into the locker room. I ripped off my black apron, throwing it onto the floor, grabbed my heavy wool coat from my locker, and shoved my arms into the sleeves as I ran toward the rear exit.
The back alley was dark, freezing, and pelted with swirling snow. I pushed through the heavy metal door into the howling wind, my breath pluming white in the air as I ran blindly toward the subway entrance two blocks away.
I was safe for tonight, I told myself, shivering violently as the snow soaked through my boots.
May you like
I was wrong.
A sleek, black Maybach pulled out from the restaurant’s private parking lot with terrifying silence, matching my pace stride for stride through the slush, its tinted windows hiding the monster who had just decided to unearth my entire life.
