“Stop Calling This Number,” She Said—Then the Mafia Boss Whispered, “My Mother Is Dead.”
Chapter 3
The police arrived ten minutes later.
The attacker was gone.
The bullet had shattered the lobby window but missed everyone.
Clara sat on the floor, shaking.
Marco stood beside her.
His jacket was torn.
Blood ran from a shallow cut near his shoulder.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse.”
Clara stared at him.
“Was that because of me?”
“No.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know.”
“How?”
Marco looked toward the broken window.
“Because they weren’t trying to kill me.”
Clara went still.
“They were warning you.”
“Yes.”
The police questioned everyone.
Marco answered very little.
Eventually, Detective Daniel Hayes arrived.
He was in his forties, calm, observant, and clearly familiar with Marco.
“You can’t stay here,” Hayes said.
Marco looked at Clara.
“Neither can she.”
Clara frowned.
“I live upstairs.”
“Not tonight.”
Hayes looked at her.
“Did you recognize anyone?”
“No.”
“Did anyone threaten you before?”
“No.”
Marco interrupted.
“Someone did.”
Hayes glanced at him.
“You don’t answer for her.”
Marco stepped back.
Clara noticed that.
The detective took her statement.
When he finished, he asked:
“Did your mother ever mention Evelyn Romano?”
Clara froze.
“No.”
“Think carefully.”
“I don’t remember.”
Hayes nodded.
“People often remember more after they sleep.”
Marco looked sharply at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m doing my job.”
Hayes left.
Clara watched him go.
“Do you trust him?”
Marco answered immediately.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he asked about your mother before you mentioned her.”
Clara’s stomach dropped.
She looked toward the broken window.
“What do we do now?”
“Move.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
Clara almost laughed.
“That’s the least safe offer I’ve ever heard.”
Marco actually smiled.
“You’re right.”
He took out his phone.
“Then choose.”
“I don’t know anyone who can protect me from a mafia boss.”
“I’m not asking you to trust me.”
“What are you asking?”
“That you survive long enough to learn why someone wants this number.”
Clara looked at her phone.
The message from her dead mother was still there.
She couldn’t ignore it.
So she agreed.
Marco drove her to a private house outside the city.
It wasn’t a mansion.
It was an old stone house overlooking the river.
Clara expected armed men.
Instead, only one elderly woman lived there.
“Who is she?”
“My aunt Sofia.”
Sofia looked at Clara.
Then gasped.
“You have Margaret’s eyes.”
Clara froze.
“You knew my mother?”
Sofia looked at Marco.
He closed the door.
“Aunt Sofia?”
The older woman slowly nodded.
“Your mother came here twenty years ago.”
Clara’s voice trembled.
“For what?”
Sofia reached for a chair.
“To hide.”
“From whom?”
She looked directly at Marco.
“From your father.”
Clara stared.
“My father died when I was six.”
Sofia shook her head.
“No.”
She whispered:
“Your father disappeared.”
Clara felt the world shift.
“What are you saying?”
Sofia looked toward the old fireplace.
“Your mother told me if anyone ever came asking about the number, I was to tell you the truth.”
“What truth?”
Sofia reached behind a painting.
She pulled out a small metal box.
Inside was an old photograph.
Margaret Bennett.
Evelyn Romano.
Standing together.
And between them was a little girl.
Clara.
She stared at the photograph.
She was perhaps five years old.
Beside her was a boy.
A little boy with dark hair.
Marco slowly took the photograph.
His face changed.
“That can’t be.”
Clara looked at him.
“Who is the boy?”
Marco stared at the image.
Then whispered:
“That was me.”
