Chapter 3 - THE CRESCENT SCAR
Clara felt the cold leather of Rico’s glove against her chin, but she didn't pull back. The weight of Leo resting his small head against her shoulder anchored her to the floor.
"It's an old injury, Mr. Moretti," Clara said, keeping her voice entirely steady despite the four armed men surrounding her. "I was in an automobile accident when I was seven years old. A piece of shattered window glass caught me under the jaw."
Rico stared down at her, his jaw muscle twitching violently. He slowly released her chin, his long fingers trembling—a sight Dante had not witnessed in fifteen years of service.
"My wife," Rico spoke, the words tearing out of his throat like rusted nails, "had the exact same mark. In the exact same spot. From the exact same childhood accident in Chicago."
Clara felt a cold chill run down her spine. "I... I didn't know your wife, sir."
"Elena," Rico murmured, his eyes searching Clara's face with a desperate, terrifying hunger. "Her name was Elena Vance."
Clara’s heart stopped beating in her chest.
Vance.
She felt the blood drain completely from her face. The air in her lungs evaporated. The restaurant around her seemed to spin into a blur of golden chandelier light and dark shadows.
"My name is Clara Vance," she whispered before she could stop herself.
Dante’s hand flew instantly to his sidearm. "Boss..."
"Silence!" Rico barked, never taking his burning silver eyes off Clara.
Leo let out a soft, contented sigh against Clara’s neck, his tiny fingers tightly twisting a lock of her loose brown hair around his knuckles. He was drifting off to sleep—the first peaceful sleep he had experienced in months.
Rico knelt down on the marble floor right in front of her. The capo of New York’s most fearsome crime syndicate was down on his knees in the middle of a public restaurant, inches away from an underpaid waitress.
"Elena had a younger sister," Rico said, his voice dropping into a raspy whisper. "A sister who vanished from Chicago sixteen years ago after their parents were killed. Elena spent her entire life searching for her. She paid private investigators millions. She never found her."
Clara looked at the powerful man sitting before her. She saw the lethal aura that surrounded him, but beneath it, she recognized the deep, hollow agony of a man who had lost his entire world.
"My mother told me I had an older sister," Clara confessed, her eyes filling with unbidden tears. "Her name was Elena. But after the accident... after my father's debts caught up with him... we were separated by the state. I was put into foster care. I was told my sister was adopted by a family in New York."
Rico reached out. His large, scarred hand hovered in the air for a second before gently touching the velvet collar of the sleeping boy resting on her chest.
"She wasn't just adopted," Rico murmured, a dark, tragic smile touching his lips. "She was taken in by the Morettis. She became my wife."
He looked up from his son, his ice-silver eyes locking onto Clara’s hazel gaze with a permanent, binding intensity.
"You aren't a waitress, Clara," Rico stated flatly. "You are Leo’s aunt. You are my family."
Marco, the manager, stepped forward nervously, oblivious to the gravity of the revelation. "Mr. Moretti... excuse me... should I have the staff clean up the broken risotto plate? And... ah... the girl needs to return to her shift..."
Rico stood up in one fluid, terrifying movement. He turned his head slowly toward Marco.
"She doesn't work here anymore, Marco," Rico said softly.
May you like
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a heavy leather wallet, withdrew a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills without counting them, and dropped them casually onto the mahogany table.
"In fact," Rico added, looking around the opulent dining room, "I am buying this restaurant tonight. Everyone out. Now."
