Chapter 2 - The Man Who Came Back
Alessandro Romano returned to Rosie’s Diner the next morning.
Alone.
That frightened me more than the bodyguards.
At 7:13 a.m., I was pouring coffee for an elderly bus driver when the bell above the front door chimed. I looked up expecting one of our construction regulars.
Instead, Alessandro walked inside wearing a dark suit beneath a black wool coat.
No Victor.
No guards.
No shouting.
He chose booth seven.
The same booth.
Dana nearly dropped a plate.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she whispered.
“Maybe he likes the coffee.”
“He threw the coffee.”
“Then maybe he likes the cups.”
She stared at me.
“You’re going over there?”
“I’m his waitress.”
“You could become his murder victim.”
“Then tell Rosa I’m taking Saturday off.”
Dana didn't laugh.
I picked up the coffee pot.
When I reached booth seven, Alessandro was looking through the window.
“Coffee?”
His eyes moved to me.
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Difficult.”
“Before eight in the morning? Usually worse.”
Something almost resembling a smile appeared at one corner of his mouth.
“Coffee.”
I poured it.
He watched my hand.
“You’re shaking.”
I immediately stopped pouring.
“I haven’t eaten.”
It was a lie.
He knew.
I knew he knew.
But Alessandro allowed it.
“Your name,” he said.
I touched the plastic badge on my uniform.
“Claire Bennett.”
“I can read.”
“Then why did you ask?”
There it was again.
That tiny movement at his mouth.
I suddenly understood something everyone else had probably forgotten.
Alessandro Romano knew how to smile.
He simply rarely had reason to.
“Sit down, Claire.”
“No.”
His expression cooled.
“I wasn’t asking.”
“And I’m working.”
I turned away.
“Your mother is Evelyn Bennett.”
I stopped.
Every sound in the diner seemed to disappear.
Slowly, I turned back.
Alessandro took a sip of coffee.
“What did you say?”
“Evelyn Bennett. Sixty-one. Pulmonary fibrosis. Mercy General.”
My fingers tightened around the coffee pot.
“How do you know my mother?”
“I asked.”
“Who?”
“People.”
Of course.
Men like Alessandro didn't search Google.
They asked people, and people answered.
I set the pot down harder than necessary.
“You had me investigated?”
“I wanted to know why a woman making eleven dollars and eighty cents an hour would threaten to throw me out of a diner.”
“Twelve forty-five.”
“What?”
“I make twelve forty-five.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Congratulations.”
“Why did you investigate me?”
His gaze remained steady.
“Because courage is usually expensive.”
“I told you. It wasn’t courage.”
“I know.”
That answer unsettled me.
He reached into his coat.
This time I did flinch.
Alessandro noticed.
Something dark passed across his expression.
He pulled out an envelope and placed it on the table.
I didn't touch it.
“What is that?”
“Your mother’s medical bills.”
My stomach tightened.
“What about them?”
“Paid.”
For a second, I genuinely couldn't understand the word.
Then anger arrived.
Hot and immediate.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“No?”
“You heard me.”
“Your mother owes Mercy General forty-eight thousand dollars.”
“Forty-eight thousand, six hundred and eleven.”
“Not anymore.”
I pushed the envelope back.
“Undo it.”
“That isn’t how payments work.”
“Then ask your people.”
“You’re refusing forty-eight thousand dollars?”
“I’m refusing your forty-eight thousand dollars.”
“Why?”
“Because yesterday you tried to give me ninety-seven dollars I didn’t earn. Today it’s forty-eight thousand. I’d rather not find out what you expect tomorrow.”
His face changed.
Not anger.
Something quieter.
“You think I want something from you.”
“People like you always want something.”
“And what exactly are people like me?”
I looked toward the two men drinking coffee near the window.
They were pretending not to listen.
“Men who never hear no.”
His eyes held mine.
I picked up the envelope.
For half a second, Alessandro looked victorious.
Then I tore it in half.
Dana made a choking noise from behind the counter.
Alessandro looked down at the pieces.
“You’re either the bravest woman I’ve met,” he said quietly, “or the stupidest.”
“Those aren't mutually exclusive.”
I walked away.
He stayed for twenty-three minutes.
When he left, he paid exactly $4.75 for the coffee.
No tip.
I smiled despite myself.
Then I noticed something beneath the saucer.
A business card.
No title.
No company.
Only a name.
Victor Russo.
And a phone number.
On the back, Alessandro had written four words.
When you need the truth.
I threw it into my apron pocket.
At 2:30 that afternoon, my phone rang.
Mercy General.
The nurse sounded nervous.
“Ms. Bennett, your mother had an episode.”
Everything inside me went cold.
“What kind of episode?”
“Her oxygen saturation dropped severely. She’s stable now, but Dr. Feldman wants you here.”
I was already untying my apron.
I drove seventeen minutes in eleven.
My mother looked impossibly small beneath the hospital blankets.
She smiled when she saw me.
“There’s my troublemaker.”
I kissed her forehead.
“Who told you?”
“Everybody knows you threatened Alessandro Romano.”
I stared at her.
“Mom.”
“What? Nurses gossip.”
Even sick, she could make me laugh.
Then Dr. Feldman entered.
His face told me the news before his mouth did.
The experimental treatment we had been waiting for had been approved.
But insurance had rejected coverage.
Again.
The deposit was $72,000.
I sat beside my mother until midnight.
She slept.
I watched the oxygen numbers rise and fall.
At 12:16, I reached into my apron.
Victor’s card was still there.
I stared at the number.
Then turned it over.
When you need the truth.
I almost called.
Almost.
Instead, I put it away.
When I finally walked into the hospital parking garage, Alessandro Romano was leaning against my rusted Honda.
I stopped.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting.”
“How long?”
“Long enough.”
I walked closer.
“You paid those bills anyway, didn't you?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“I canceled the payment.”
“Why?”
“Because you told me to.”
For the first time, I didn't know what to say.
Then Alessandro looked toward the hospital.
“Your mother’s treatment was denied.”
My anger returned.
“Stop investigating us.”
“I wasn't investigating you tonight.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because the physician who developed that treatment works for a research institute funded by the Romano Foundation.”
I stared at him.
Of course.
Even hope apparently belonged to Alessandro Romano.
“I don't want your charity.”
“I’m not offering charity.”
“Then what are you offering?”
His expression hardened.
“A job.”
I laughed.
“I already have one.”
“This pays more.”
“Doing what?”
He stepped closer.
“Exactly what you did last night.”
I frowned.
“Tell you when you're being an asshole?”
For the first time, Alessandro Romano actually laughed.
It was brief.
Low.
Almost startled.
“Yes,” he said.
Then his smile disappeared.
“Because everyone around me is lying.”
May you like
He glanced toward the dark hospital windows.
“And I think one of those lies is going to get me killed.”
