“Stop Calling This Number,” She Said—Then the Mafia Boss Whispered, “My Mother Is Dead.”
Chapter 2
Marco Romano did not look like the man Clara had seen described in newspapers.
There was no obvious arrogance.
No flashy jewelry.
No theatrical display of power.
He simply looked exhausted.
Like a man who had spent years carrying something too heavy to put down.
“Show me the phone,” he said.
Clara didn’t move.
Marco noticed.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“You know who I am.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
For the first time, something almost like respect appeared in his eyes.
“Fair.”
He took a step back.
“My mother used to call a number every Sunday night.”
Clara looked at the screen.
“This one?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“I was nineteen.”
He looked toward the rain-covered windows.
“I thought she was talking to an old friend.”
“And now?”
“Now I know she was afraid.”
Clara frowned.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because three days before she died, she told me something.”
“What?”
Marco looked at her.
“If anything happens to me, call this number.”
Clara’s pulse quickened.
“Why?”
“She never explained.”
“Then why did you wait three years?”
His jaw tightened.
“Because I thought she was dead.”
Clara stared at him.
“She is dead.”
Marco nodded.
“Yes.”
“Then what do you mean?”
He looked at the phone.
“Three years ago, the police told me my mother died at home from a cardiac event.”
“And you believed them?”
“I had no reason not to.”
“Until?”
“Until someone sent me a photograph last week.”
He reached inside his coat.
Instead of a gun, he pulled out an envelope.
He placed it on the desk.
Clara opened it.
Inside was a photograph of Evelyn Romano standing outside a train station.
The date was printed on the image.
Four months after her supposed death.
Clara’s breath caught.
“That could be fake.”
“Yes.”
“Did you verify it?”
“I’m the reason people don’t fake things in this city.”
The statement should have frightened her.
Instead, Clara noticed the desperation underneath it.
“You think she’s alive.”
“I did.”
“Now?”
Marco looked at her.
“I don’t know what I think.”
Clara looked at the photograph again.
“Who sent this?”
“Anonymous.”
“Why?”
“I was supposed to find this number.”
She slowly set the photograph down.
“And now you found it.”
Marco nodded.
“You told me to stop calling.”
“I didn’t know.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“You didn’t.”
The hotel door opened.
A man entered.
He wore a dark suit and looked toward Marco.
“Boss.”
Marco turned.
“Not here.”
The man lowered his voice.
“We have a problem.”
Marco’s expression hardened.
“Go outside.”
The man hesitated.
“Boss—”
“Now.”
The man obeyed.
Clara watched him leave.
“You really are him.”
Marco glanced at her.
“Who?”
“The man everyone is afraid of.”
He smiled without humor.
“People are afraid of what they don’t understand.”
Clara looked at him.
“What should I understand?”
Marco didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he said:
“You should understand that whoever left that message knew your mother’s name.”
Clara’s eyes widened.
“You think this is connected to my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother never knew many people.”
Clara’s voice lowered.
“And mine didn’t either.”
Marco looked at her carefully.
“What happened to your mother?”
“She died four years ago.”
“How?”
“Cancer.”
“Are you sure?”
Clara frowned.
“Why would you ask that?”
Marco looked away.
“Because my mother helped sick women disappear.”
Clara felt a chill.
“What does that mean?”
Marco said nothing.
Then the hotel lights went out.
The lobby plunged into darkness.
Clara heard something crash behind the desk.
She turned.
A shadow moved near the entrance.
Marco immediately stepped in front of her.
“Stay behind me.”
A gunshot shattered the window.
Marco pulled Clara to the floor.
And somewhere in the darkness, someone whispered:
“Find the number.”
