Chapter 2 - The Name She Buried in Boston
Lily had spent three years teaching herself not to react when a dangerous man asked questions.
Unfortunately, Dante Corsetti was looking at her as though he already knew the answers.
“I'm not hiding anything, Mr. Corsetti.”
The lie tasted bitter.
Dante's expression remained unreadable.
“Then why are you shaking?”
Lily lowered her hands.
“Because you're questioning me in front of an entire restaurant.”
That surprised him.
Not enough to make him smile, but enough to soften the hard line between his eyebrows.
Before he could respond, his mother reached across the table and caught Lily's wrist.
The older woman signed something quickly.
My son has forgotten his manners.
Lily almost laughed.
Dante noticed.
“What did she say?”
“Nothing important.”
His mother smiled triumphantly.
For one beautiful second, Lily forgot that she was standing beside the most feared man in Chicago.
Then a waiter dropped a glass.
The sharp crash made her flinch so violently that Dante turned.
His gaze moved from the broken glass to her face.
And Lily knew he had noticed something else.
Fear.
Not the ordinary nervousness of a waitress serving a wealthy customer.
The kind of fear that came from remembering a gunshot.
Dante stepped aside.
“You may go.”
Lily nodded and hurried toward the kitchen.
She didn't see his mother sign to him.
She is running from someone.
Dante's hands moved in response.
How can you tell?
Because I remember what fear looks like.
His mother's smile disappeared.
And because she looks like someone I knew a long time ago.
Dante followed her gaze toward the kitchen doors.
“Who?”
But his mother lowered her hands.
For the first time that evening, she refused to answer.
Lily made it to the employees' restroom before her knees nearly gave out.
She locked herself inside a stall, pressed both palms against the cold metal partition, and counted backward from twenty.
Nineteen.
Eighteen.
Seventeen.
She had not heard anyone mention Boston in six months.
She had not seen a black SUV outside her apartment in almost a year.
And she had begun to believe that Chicago was far enough away.
It wasn't.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
It showed Lily standing beside Mrs. Corsetti.
Taken less than five minutes earlier.
Underneath was a message.
YOU WERE WARNED NOT TO SPEAK TO THAT FAMILY.
Lily stopped breathing.
Another message appeared.
YOUR FATHER MADE THE SAME MISTAKE.
Her phone slipped from her fingers.
It struck the tile floor with a crack.
For three years, Lily had believed that her father's death was the final consequence of his betrayal.
Now someone was telling her it had only been the beginning.
She retrieved the phone with trembling hands.
Her father's name had been Michael Adams.
At least, that was the name he had used during the final six years of his life.
Before that, he had been Michael Bellini.
An accountant.
A trusted financial adviser.
And, according to the Boston newspapers, a man who had stolen millions from the Bellini crime family before dying in a suspicious warehouse fire.
Lily had been eighteen when the police delivered his watch.
They never recovered a body.
Her aunt told her to leave Boston immediately.
“Don't ask questions,” Aunt Rebecca had whispered. “Don't look for the money. And never tell anyone your real name.”
Lily had obeyed.
Until tonight.
At nine-thirty, the restaurant manager summoned Lily to his office.
Victor Hale was a nervous man with thinning blond hair and a habit of straightening his tie whenever wealthy customers complained.
He was straightening it now.
“Lily, Mr. Corsetti has requested that you remain after your shift.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Why?”
Victor looked offended.
“When a man like Dante Corsetti requests something, we don't ask why.”
“I'm not comfortable staying late.”
Victor leaned forward.
“Then perhaps you're not comfortable keeping this job.”
Lily thought of her tuition bill.
Her overdue rent.
The eighty-seven dollars in her checking account.
She swallowed.
“What time?”
“Ten.”
He dismissed her with a wave.
As she reached the door, he added, “And Lily?”
She turned.
“Whatever you said to his mother, don't say it again.”
The warning was too specific.
Lily stared at him.
“Why?”
Victor's eyes flickered toward the security camera above his desk.
“Because some conversations are worth more than your life.”
At ten-fifteen, Lily found Dante waiting in the private dining room.
His mother sat beside the fireplace, studying an old photograph.
Two security guards stood outside.
Dante had removed his jacket.
His white shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms.
Somehow, that made him look more dangerous.
“Sit down, Miss Adams.”
“I'd rather stand.”
“Suit yourself.”
He placed a slim leather folder on the table.
Inside was a printed copy of her employee application.
Lily felt her pulse accelerate.
“Twenty-one years old,” Dante said. “Born in Massachusetts. No family listed. Excellent academic record. Fluent in Italian, French, and American Sign Language.”
He looked up.
“That's an unusual résumé for someone who claims she has no interesting past.”
“I study languages.”
“Where did you learn Italian?”
“School.”
“Which school?”
She hesitated.
Dante noticed.
He always noticed.
Before he could ask another question, his mother tapped the table.
Lily turned.
The older woman was signing.
Tell him to stop interrogating you.
Lily looked between them.
“He understands you.”
“Of course I do,” Dante replied.
“Then why does everyone behave as though she needs someone else to speak for her?”
Silence.
Dante's jaw tightened.
His mother smiled.
Then she lifted the photograph.
Lily saw two women standing outside a white house.
One was a younger version of Mrs. Corsetti.
The other had dark hair, a gentle smile, and a silver necklace shaped like a small swallow.
Lily's blood turned cold.
She knew that necklace.
Her father had kept it in a locked wooden box.
It was the only thing he had ever refused to explain.
Mrs. Corsetti pointed to the dark-haired woman.
Her hands moved slowly.
Do you know her?
Lily shook her head.
But the older woman's eyes filled with tears.
You have her eyes.
Dante leaned forward.
“Mother?”
His mother continued signing.
Her name was Sofia.
Lily gripped the edge of the table.
Sofia.
The name written on the back of the photograph her father had burned before they fled Boston.
Dante looked from his mother to Lily.
“Who was Sofia?”
His mother did not answer immediately.
Instead, she reached into her handbag and withdrew a folded piece of yellow paper.
She placed it in Lily's hands.
The paper was old.
Its edges were brittle.
Across the center, in faded blue ink, someone had written a sentence.
If anything happens to me, find my daughter.
Below it was a date.
Twenty-one years earlier.
And a signature.
Sofia Bellini.
Lily stared at the handwriting.
She recognized the final flourish of the letter S.
Her father had taught her to write it exactly that way.
Mrs. Corsetti signed one final sentence.
I was told her baby died.
Lily's phone vibrated again.
A third message appeared.
ASK DANTE WHAT HIS FATHER DID TO SOFIA.
She looked up.
Dante was watching her.
For the first time, the dangerous man across the table seemed genuinely afraid.
May you like
“Lily,” he said quietly, “who are you?”
And Lily realized the answer might destroy them both.
