Chapter 2 - The Girl Wearing the Falcon
The first thing I learned about Victor Sabatini was that he didn't believe in asking twice.
The second was that he had absolutely no idea how to deal with a woman who said no.
“Seven shirts,” he repeated.
I folded my arms.
“Seven appointments with a therapist.”
His dark eyebrows drew together.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Victor stood across my cutting table wearing the gray cashmere shirt I had modified the previous night. Beneath the soft fabric, his enormous shoulders looked less threatening than they had when he was bleeding on the Persian rug.
Only slightly.
“You have a medical condition,” I continued. “You also have a temper that could qualify as a natural disaster. I can help with the first one.”
“And the second?”
“That's between you and God.”
For three seconds, he stared at me.
Then he laughed.
It was a quiet sound, almost rusty, as though the machinery responsible for producing it hadn't been used in years.
Outside the studio, somebody dropped something.
Probably a gun.
Victor pulled out a chair.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Tessa.”
“Victor.”
His expression changed.
Nobody in that house called him Victor.
Not the guards.
Not the staff.
Not even Rocco, who appeared old enough to have known him since childhood.
But I was already being held against my will.
I figured politeness was optional.
Victor rested his hands on the cutting table.
“What do you want?”
I hadn't expected that question.
“My job back.”
“You have a better one.”
“My apartment.”
“Your rent is paid.”
“My freedom.”
That stopped him.
For the first time, the amusement disappeared completely.
“You don't understand what happened last night.”
“Three men kidnapped a seamstress. A rich criminal threatened his doctor. Somebody ruined a perfectly good Persian rug.”
His jaw tightened.
“I was attacked.”
“I noticed the knife wound.”
“The men who attacked me knew my route. My schedule. The security arrangements around my estate.”
“Sounds like you need better friends.”
“One of those men is still alive.”
The room became quieter.
Victor straightened.
“He escaped. And he knows someone helped me survive.”
I glanced at the shirt.
“Me.”
“Yes.”
My stomach sank.
“You're saying I'm in danger because your enemies know I made you a shirt?”
“I'm saying someone tried to kill me, and the only stranger brought into my house afterward was you.”
I considered that.
Then I pointed at him.
“That's still your fault.”
“Yes.”
The admission surprised me more than anything else.
Victor looked toward the windows.
“You can leave when we know it's safe.”
“Who decides that?”
“I do.”
“Then that's not freedom.”
His gaze returned to mine.
For a moment, I thought he might explode.
Instead, he nodded once.
“Fair.”
He walked toward the door.
“Make the shirts, Tessa. We'll discuss the rest.”
“I'm not promising seven.”
“Make one.”
I watched him leave.
Then I locked the studio door.
Not because I believed it would stop him.
Because sometimes a woman needed the satisfaction of hearing a lock click.
By noon, I had discovered three things.
Victor owned more Italian wool than most clothing manufacturers.
His household staff was terrified of him.
And somebody had been watching me long before Rocco arrived at Lombardi's.
I discovered the last detail inside a brown leather folder someone had left beneath a stack of fabric samples.
The folder contained photographs.
Of me.
Leaving my apartment.
Buying coffee.
Walking into Lombardi's.
Standing outside a pharmacy.
There were fourteen photographs in total.
The oldest was dated six weeks earlier.
My hands turned cold.
I heard footsteps outside.
I shoved the folder beneath the cutting table just as the door opened.
A woman in her late fifties entered carrying a silver tray.
She had neatly pinned gray hair and the tired, observant eyes of someone who had spent decades pretending not to notice dangerous things.
“Lunch, sweetheart.”
“Thanks.”
She set down a bowl of tomato soup.
“I'm Teresa. Housekeeper.”
“Tessa.”
“I know.”
Of course she did.
Everyone knew my name.
I apparently lived inside a surveillance operation with better furniture than the FBI.
Teresa glanced toward the door.
“You should eat while it's warm.”
I watched her hands.
They were trembling.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“Who was Victor's mother?”
Teresa stopped moving.
A spoon rattled against the tray.
“Why?”
“Her silk. I wanted to know whose fabric I used.”
Teresa looked toward the hallway.
Then she closed the door.
“Her name was Isabella.”
“Was she kind?”
The older woman's expression softened.
“She was the only person in this house who could make Victor smile.”
“What happened to her?”
Teresa swallowed.
“A fire.”
My fingers tightened around the spoon.
“The same fire that burned him?”
“Yes.”
“How old was he?”
“Sixteen.”
I stared at her.
Twenty years.
Victor was thirty-six.
And he had been carrying those scars for more than half his life.
“Who started it?”
Teresa's expression changed.
“People who should have protected her.”
Before I could ask another question, she hurried toward the door.
Then stopped.
“Miss Quinn?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever you do, don't let Mr. Bellini see your necklace.”
My heart stopped.
Rocco Bellini.
The security chief.
The man who had dragged me from the tailor shop.
I stared at Teresa.
“What necklace?”
She gave me a look full of terrible understanding.
Then whispered, “Your mother had the same one.”
And left.
I didn't move for almost a minute.
My mother.
I had spent eighteen years believing she was dead.
Or missing.
Or simply another woman who had abandoned a child she couldn't afford to raise.
The foster system had never provided a clear answer.
My earliest memory was a woman's voice telling me to keep my necklace hidden.
My second was smoke.
Thick, black smoke.
A man shouting.
And somebody carrying me through a doorway.
I touched the silver falcon beneath my blouse.
Its wings were spread.
Its tiny eyes were set with dark stones.
On the back were three engraved letters.
M. D. F.
I had never known what they meant.
Until that afternoon.
At three o'clock, Victor returned.
He was carrying a black garment bag.
“Your measurements,” he said.
I stared at him.
“That's usually my line.”
He placed the bag on the table.
“Dinner tonight. Important people. I want you downstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because someone asked about you.”
A chill moved down my spine.
“Who?”
“An old associate.”
“Name?”
“Salvatore DeLuca.”
My hands went numb.
I didn't know the name.
But my body reacted as though it did.
Victor noticed.
“Something wrong?”
“No.”
He studied me.
“You're a terrible liar.”
“And you're a terrible host.”
His mouth twitched.
Then he opened the garment bag.
Inside was a midnight-blue dress.
Simple.
Elegant.
Expensive enough to pay my rent for a year.
I stared at it.
“Absolutely not.”
“What's wrong with it?”
“Nothing. That's the problem.”
He frowned.
“You don't like expensive clothes?”
“I like clothes I can afford to own.”
“You can keep it.”
“I don't want gifts from a man who kidnapped me.”
Victor's expression hardened.
“I told you why—”
“And I told you it doesn't change what happened.”
Silence.
Then he closed the bag.
“Fine.”
He turned toward the door.
“Wear whatever you want.”
I watched him leave.
For the first time, I wondered whether he was actually learning.
Then I found a note tucked beneath the dress.
Four words.
He knows you're alive.
That evening, I went downstairs wearing my own black trousers and a clean white blouse.
The falcon pendant remained hidden.
The dining room looked like something from an old European palace.
Twelve chairs.
Crystal glasses.
Silver cutlery.
Three men in tailored suits sat beside Victor.
Rocco stood near the fireplace.
And at the far end of the table sat a thin man with white hair and pale blue eyes.
Salvatore DeLuca.
He looked at me.
His wineglass stopped halfway to his mouth.
For one terrible second, his face emptied.
Then he smiled.
“Ah,” he said softly. “The seamstress.”
Victor gestured toward an empty chair.
“Tessa Quinn.”
Salvatore repeated the name.
“Quinn.”
As though tasting it.
I sat.
He studied my face.
“My dear, have we met?”
“No.”
“Strange. You remind me of someone.”
Victor's eyes narrowed.
“Who?”
Salvatore smiled.
“A woman I knew a very long time ago.”
Rocco moved behind my chair.
I felt him watching me.
Salvatore leaned forward.
“Tell me, Miss Quinn. Where were you born?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Parents?”
“Don't know them.”
“Or don't remember them?”
Victor put down his fork.
“Salvatore.”
The older man lifted one hand.
“I'm making conversation.”
He turned back toward me.
“Do you believe children inherit their parents' sins?”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Interesting.”
He smiled.
“Your father believed otherwise.”
The entire table went silent.
Victor's expression changed.
“What did you say?”
Salvatore slowly lifted his glass.
“Nothing important.”
But beneath the table, my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
One message.
RUN. THE MAN BESIDE VICTOR KILLED YOUR MOTHER.
I looked up.
May you like
Salvatore was still smiling.
And Rocco had just drawn his gun.
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