Chapter 11 - THE ENVELOPE UNDER EMILIA’S CHAIRClara noticed the envelope because Emilia dropped a meatball.
It was a Tuesday night at Giovanni’s Prime, three weeks after the rainy evening when Clara had once again poured water over Dominic’s cuff just to watch him complain.
The dinner rush had ended.
Paulie was arguing with a produce supplier in the kitchen.
Victor sat at the bar pretending he was not babysitting.
And Dominic Russo—the former crime boss who had once made entire rooms fall silent—was crawling beneath a restaurant table because his two-year-old daughter had thrown her stuffed rabbit underneath it.
“Found him,” Dominic announced.
Emilia clapped.
“Bunny!”
“Yes. Bunny betrayed us.”
Clara laughed from the other side of the table.
Then Dominic stopped.
His hand remained beneath Emilia’s chair.
“What?”
He pulled out a cream-colored envelope.
Clara’s smile disappeared.
There was no stamp.
No name.
Only a black wax seal.
Dominic stared at it for several seconds.
Victor was beside them almost immediately.
“Where did that come from?”
“Under the chair.”
Victor’s expression changed.
He looked toward the front entrance.
Then the kitchen.
Then the security cameras.
Clara lifted Emilia into her arms.
“Dominic.”
“I know.”
“No.”
His eyes met hers.
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The face where you decide something dangerous and then tell me about it afterward.”
“I haven’t decided anything.”
“Your left eyebrow moved.”
“My eyebrow does not have criminal intentions.”
“It absolutely does.”
Under different circumstances, Dominic might have smiled.
He didn’t.
Victor took the envelope.
“Let security handle it.”
Clara tightened her arms around Emilia.
“Open it.”
Dominic hesitated.
“Clara—”
“Open it.”
Victor broke the seal.
Inside was a photograph.
Dominic took it.
His face drained of color.
Clara stepped closer.
The picture was old.
Probably twenty-five years.
Salvatore Russo stood outside a brick warehouse beside three men.
Clara recognized one immediately.
Her father.
Thomas Jenkins.
The second was younger Declan Gallagher.
The third man was unfamiliar.
Tall.
Blond.
Smiling.
Someone had drawn a circle around him.
On the back were four words.
ASK WHO REALLY SURVIVED.
Clara stared.
“What does that mean?”
Dominic said nothing.
“Dominic.”
“I don’t know.”
Victor turned the photograph toward the light.
Then he went completely still.
Clara noticed.
“You know him.”
Victor looked at Dominic.
Dominic looked back.
Something passed between them.
Clara’s patience vanished.
“I swear to God, if the two of you start communicating through eyebrows—”
“Matteo Vescari,” Victor said.
Dominic closed his eyes.
Clara waited.
Victor continued.
“Salvatore’s partner.”
“Business?”
“No.”
That answer was enough.
Clara looked at Dominic.
“You told me Gallagher was your father’s biggest rival.”
“He was.”
“But?”
Dominic took Emilia gently from Clara and handed her to Rosa, who had entered from the kitchen after Victor quietly summoned her.
“Take Emilia upstairs.”
Clara’s voice sharpened.
“Dominic.”
He kissed his daughter’s forehead.
“Go with Rosa, principessa.”
Emilia waved.
“Mommy!”
“I’ll be there soon.”
Only after Rosa disappeared did Dominic speak.
“Before Gallagher, there were four families controlling most organized operations in Chicago.”
“I know.”
“Russo. Gallagher. Moretti.”
“And Vescari.”
Dominic nodded.
“Matteo Vescari was my father’s closest friend.”
Clara looked at the photograph again.
“What happened to him?”
“His family was killed.”
“When?”
“Twenty-six years ago.”
“How?”
“A bomb.”
Clara’s stomach tightened.
“And Matteo?”
“Supposedly inside the house.”
“Supposedly?”
“No body was ever conclusively identified.”
Victor placed something else on the table.
A tiny piece of paper had been hidden behind the photograph.
An address.
Clara recognized it.
“Giovanni’s?”
“No,” Dominic said.
Clara looked closer.
The address was one digit different.
It belonged to the abandoned building next door.
The one currently undergoing renovation.
Victor was already calling security.
Clara turned toward the windows.
Construction had ended hours earlier.
The building was dark.
Except for one light.
Third floor.
A silhouette stood behind the glass.
Watching them.
Dominic stepped in front of Clara automatically.
She grabbed the back of his shirt.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t turn into him again.”
His shoulders stiffened.
She meant the old Dominic.
The man who answered fear with violence.
The man who confused protection with control.
Dominic slowly looked at her.
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
Victor returned.
“Security searched the building twenty minutes ago.”
Dominic looked toward the illuminated window.
“And?”
“Empty.”
The silhouette was gone.
Clara picked up the photograph.
Her father’s smiling face stared back.
Eleven years of secrets had already followed Thomas Jenkins beyond the grave.
Apparently he had left more.
Clara whispered, “What did our fathers do?”
Dominic looked at her.
“I think we’re about to find out.”
Then Clara’s phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
SHE LOOKS LIKE YOU.
Below it was a photograph taken less than ten minutes earlier.
Emilia.
Sitting on Dominic’s lap.
Inside Giovanni’s.
Clara stopped breathing.
May you like
Another message appeared.
TELL DOMINIC THAT MATTEO WANTS HIS FAMILY BACK.
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