Chapter 2 - The Silver Locket
For the next forty-five minutes, Aurelia operated in a surreal, suffocating hush.
The surrounding tables remained empty because Greg had quietly redirected all other guests to the far side of the dining room. My fellow waitstaff sneaked terrified, bewildered glances at me whenever they passed the service station, but nobody dared step within fifteen feet of Table Twelve.
I sat in the plush velvet chair, holding Leo as he slept soundly against my chest.
Luca sat right beside me. He didn't touch his mineral water. He didn't touch the bottle of high-end Barolo that another waiter had nervously set on the table. He simply sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes locked onto my face.
“Where are you from, Avery?” he asked smoothly.
“South Philadelphia,” I answered quietly, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb the baby. “Grew up near Girard Avenue.”
“Family?”
“None,” I said truthfully. “My mother died when I was six. I grew up in the state foster system until I aged out at eighteen.”
Luca’s left eyebrow lifted slightly. “No brothers? No sisters?”
“No one.”
Luca reached out his hand. His fingers were long and calloused, a heavy gold signet ring on his pinky finger. He didn't touch me, but he pointed to the thin silver chain hanging around my neck, which had slipped out from beneath my uniform collar when Leo grabbed me.
“That necklace,” Luca said softly. “Where did you get it?”
I touched the small, circular silver pendant resting against my collarbone. It was scratched, tarnished, and old.
“It was my mother’s,” I said. “It’s the only thing I have left of hers. I’ve worn it every single day since I was a little girl.”
“May I see it?”
I hesitated for a moment before lifting the small medallion over my head and handing it to him.
Luca took the silver pendant in his large palm. His thumb gently rubbed over the worn surface, tracing an intricate, faded engraving of an oak leaf surrounded by three small stars.
When his eyes landed on that engraving, the color drained from his face for the second time that night.
He turned the medallion over. On the back, faint initials were carved into the silver: C.M. - 1996.
Luca’s breath caught in his throat.
“Boss?” Marco stepped forward from the shadow of the pillar, his hand instinctively dropping toward his tailored coat where his holstered firearm rested. “Is something wrong?”
Luca didn't answer Marco. He looked at me, his eyes wide with an emotion that looked suspiciously like terror.
“Your mother,” Luca said, his voice dropping into an icy whisper. “What was her name?”
“Clara,” I answered, my brow furrowing in confusion. “Clara Lin.”
Luca closed his eyes for three agonizing seconds. When he opened them, his gaze was dark, heavy, and full of a terrible, unquantifiable weight.
“Your mother didn't die of an illness, did she, Avery?”
My blood ran cold. The comfortable warmth of the restaurant seemed to vanish instantly.
“She died in a hit-and-run car crash,” I said, my voice trembling. “In the winter of 2005. Why are you asking me this? How do you know about my mother?”
Luca set the silver locket down onto the white tablecloth between us.
“Because, Avery,” Luca said, leaning in so close I could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes and the fine line of the scar across his cheek, “that silver necklace was forged by my father in Italy. There were only two ever made.”
He reached inside his collar and pulled out an identical silver chain from beneath his black shirt. Suspended from his chain was an identical silver medallion—engraved with the exact same oak leaf and three stars.
“The first one belongs to the head of the Moretti family,” Luca whispered. “And twenty years ago, my father gave the second one to his younger sister before she vanished from Philadelphia.”
I stared at the two silver lockets resting side-by-side on the table.
My brain refused to process the words. My breath hitched in my chest.
“No,” I rasped, shaking my head. “No, that’s impossible. My mother was a seamstress. She worked in a dry cleaner on Broad Street. She wasn't... she wasn't mafia.”
“Her name wasn't Clara Lin,” Luca said gently, reaching out to cover my shaking hand with his own. “Her name was Clara Moretti. She was my aunt.”
May you like
He looked down at the sleeping baby in my arms.
“And you,” Luca whispered, “are my cousin. Which means little Leo isn't reaching for a stranger... he’s holding onto the last living blood relative of his mother.”
