Chapter 2 - the interrogation at il destino
The silence in the private back room of Il Destino was far more dangerous than the tension in the dining hall.
Outside the heavy mahogany doors, Dante stood guard, keeping the anxious manager and lingering staff fifty feet away. Inside, the dim amber wall sconces cast long shadows across the velvet armchairs. Rico stood behind the manager's desk, his broad frame blocking the dim light, his black jacket unbuttoned as he stared down at Clara.
Leo sat asleep on the plush velvet sofa in the corner, his thumb resting near his mouth, his small breathing steady for the first time in weeks.
Clara stood near the door, her hands clutched tightly in her pink apron. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, but she kept her chin lifted, refusing to break eye contact with the most dangerous man in Brooklyn.
"Where did you get that locket, Clara?" Rico asked. His voice was dangerously low, carrying a smooth, icy timbre that made the air feel thin.
Clara reached up, her thumb touching the smooth silver casing hanging at her collar. "It was a gift. From my older sister, Sarah."
"Where is Sarah?" Rico demanded, taking one slow, heavy step forward.
"She passed away six years ago," Clara replied softly, her voice wavering with old grief. "She gave it to me right before she disappeared from Manhattan. She told me it was a family heirloom from a woman who saved her life."
Rico’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a worn leather wallet, and extracted a small, folded photograph. He set it on the desk under the lamp.
Clara stepped forward cautiously, looking down at the picture.
It showed a stunning young woman with warm brown eyes wearing an elegant dark dress, holding a newborn baby in her arms. Around her neck was the exact same silver locket—carved with the same intricate Sicilian vine pattern.
"My wife, Isabella," Rico said, his deep voice thick with unspoken pain. "That locket was custom-crafted by a master jeweler in Palermo thirty years ago. There are only two in existence. One was buried with my wife six months ago. The second belonged to her secret sister who vanished in 2018."
Clara’s breath hitched in her throat, her fair skin turning sheet-white. "My sister... was named Sarah Vance. But her birth name was Sarah Moretti."
Rico froze. The revelation hit the quiet room like a physical shock wave.
For six years, Rico had searched for his late wife's long-lost younger sister—the woman Isabella had tried desperately to locate before her untimely death. And now, by an impossible twist of fate, that sister was working double shifts as a waitress in his family’s favorite restaurant, wearing the very key to his late wife's past.
Rico looked at Clara, seeing for the first time the striking, familiar warmth in her brown eyes that mirrored his late wife’s gentle soul.
"Pack your things, Clara," Rico ordered, his tone shifting from suspicion to absolute, unyielding authority.
Clara blinked, taking a step back. "What? No! I have a shift to finish—"
"You aren't a waitress anymore," Rico said, walking around the desk and looking down at her with intense, dark resolve. "My son responded to you when he hasn't spoken a word in six months. You are coming to my estate tonight as Leo's personal caregiver."
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"And if I say no?" Clara challenged quietly, her brave spirit flaring.
Rico looked down at his sleeping son on the sofa, then back at Clara, a rare, faint softening touching his hardened features. "Look at him, Clara. He chose you. And in my world, nobody turns down a Moretti."
