Chapter 2 - The Translation
By midnight, Il Canto was dead silent.
The kitchen staff had scrubbed the line, the dishwasher had turned off the water reclamation system, and Marco was sitting in his small elevated glass booth near the entrance, counting the night’s credit card receipts under a single yellow desk lamp.
Chloe sat on a wooden folding chair in the employee break room, staring at her shoes. Her feet throbbed with a rhythmic, dull ache that reached all the way up her calves.
The door to the break room opened softly.
Marco walked in, holding a small white envelope in his hand. He didn't look angry, which was somehow far worse. He looked exhausted.
“He left a five-hundred-dollar tip on a six-hundred-dollar tab,” Marco said, setting the envelope on the table beside her elbow.
Chloe looked at the paper. “He kept his word.”
“He also asked for your schedule,” Marco added, leaning against the vending machine. He crossed his arms over his apron. “Chloe... what happened in there?”
“His mother is deaf, Marco,” Chloe said, rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hands. “She was hungry, she wanted risotto, and nobody was paying attention to her.”
“That man runs three construction locals, two concrete plants, and the entire fish market down on Fulton Street,” Marco whispered, leaning down until his face was level with hers. “People who cross Gabriel Costello don't get fired, Chloe. They end up in the river or in a federal indictment. You talked to him like he was a busboy.”
“He was acting like an idiot,” she muttered, standing up and grabbing her coat from the metal locker. “I don't care how many concrete plants he owns. He was ignoring his mother.”
Marco stared at her for a long moment, then let out a slow, heavy breath. “He told me to put you on Table 7 every time his family comes in. Every Thursday night.”
Chloe paused, her arm halfway into the sleeve of her faded black winter jacket. “I work lunch shifts on Thursdays.”
“Not anymore,” Marco said flatly. “You work Thursday nights. And Chloe?”
She looked at him.
“Learn how to lie better,” he said softly. “Because if that old lady tells you something about his business and you translate it wrong, he’ll know.”
The following Thursday arrived far too quickly.
Chloe spent six days trying not to think about the VIP room. She tried to focus on her rent, on the rising cost of groceries, on the leaky radiator in her studio apartment on 108th Street. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Beatrice’s small, desperate hands moving in the dim light of the restaurant, and Gabriel’s dark, bewildered face as he realized he was totally helpless.
At six-thirty on Thursday evening, the mahogany doors of Room 4 opened.
Gabriel Costello walked in alone.
He was wearing a dark navy suit tonight, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, looking like a man who had spent ten hours in an arbitration hearing.
He didn't sit at the head of the table. He stood by the high-backed chair, his hands buried deep in his trousers pockets, watching the door until Beatrice walked in behind him, escorted by two large men who stayed out in the hallway.
Beatrice wore a plum-colored dress and her usual pearls. Her eyes swept the private dining room instantly, ignoring the champagne bucket, ignoring her son, searching until they landed directly on Chloe, who was standing near the sideboard with a fresh linen napkin over her arm.
Beatrice’s face broke into a wide, luminous smile.
There you are! the old woman signed immediately, walking straight past Gabriel without a glance. I told this brute I wouldn't eat tonight if you weren't here.
Chloe felt a sudden, strange warmth bloom in her chest—a feeling she hadn't experienced since Leo used to wait for her on the front porch after high school.
She lifted her hands, her movements fluid and clean. Welcome back, Mrs. Costello. The kitchen prepared fresh stock for the risotto tonight.
Beatrice clapped her hands together in delight. Good! Tell the chef if it’s salty like last time I will personally throw it at his head.
Chloe let out a small snort of laughter, catching herself instantly.
Gabriel stepped forward, his dark eyes moving back and forth between his mother’s moving fingers and Chloe’s face. He stood too close—close enough that Chloe could smell his cologne, something heavy and cedar-scented that made the back of her throat go warm.
“Translate,” Gabriel ordered quietly.
Chloe turned her head to look at him. “She’s pleased to be back.”
Gabriel’s eyebrow shot up. “That took ten seconds to sign. You gave me four words.”
Chloe didn't flinch. “The rest was professional criticism directed at the kitchen staff.”
Gabriel stared at her for five long seconds. The silence in the room stretched until it felt like a drawn bowstring. Then, to Chloe’s absolute shock, the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a half-second, almost invisible smirk.
“Sit, Ma,” Gabriel said, pulling out the high-backed chair for his mother.
Beatrice sat down, smoothing her skirt. Gabriel moved to the chair directly beside her—not at the head of the table where he usually sat, but right next to her shoulder, where he could see her face.
He looked up at Chloe. “Bring the wine first. The Barolo.”
“Yes, Mr. Costello.”
“And a notepad,” he added flatly.
Chloe stopped. “A notepad?”
Gabriel pulled a heavy silver fountain pen from his breast pocket and set it beside his water glass. “If I’m going to sit here every week listening to the two of you talk behind my back, I want to know what I’m paying for.”
Chloe looked down at the silver pen, then at Beatrice, who was watching her son with an expression of intense, sharp curiosity.
He brought a pen, Chloe signed to Beatrice. He wants to write to you.
Beatrice stared at the pen on the table, then looked up at her son’s face. Her expression softened, the sharp edges of her usual annoyance melting into something old, delicate, and deeply painful.
He hasn't written to me since he was twelve, Beatrice signed, her hands moving slowly, almost reverently. After my husband died, Gabriel stopped looking at my hands. He thought if he ignored the silence, it meant he was strong enough to protect us.
Gabriel watched his mother’s fingers, his face rigid. “What is she saying, Chloe?”
Chloe swallowed hard over a sudden lump in her throat. She looked at Gabriel, seeing past the dark suit, past the gun hidden under his jacket, past the reputation that made Marco sweat through his shirt.
“She said,” Chloe whispered softly, “that you haven't written to her since you were twelve years old.”
Gabriel froze. His hand, resting near the silver pen, went entirely still.
Beatrice reached out. Her small, frail hand covered his large, calloused knuckles on the white tablecloth. She didn't sign anything else. She just held his hand, her thumb pressing gently against his skin.
May you like
Gabriel didn't pull away. He sat there, staring down at his mother’s hand, his dark face unreadable, while the quiet in the room settled around them like falling snow.
“Bring the wine,” Gabriel said softly, his voice lower than before. “And take your time.”
