Chapter 2 - GHOSTS IN TAILORED SUITS
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The heavy glass of Bellavita’s front doors shuddered under the rhythmic thud of knuckles.
Every customer seated near the arched windows recoiled as silhouettes shifted against the glow of Chicago streetlights.
Matteo De Luca did not look away from the photograph in his palm.
His fingertips dug into the edges of the curled paper until the faded image of Isabella creased under the pressure.
Elena watched the pulse in his jaw jump like an exposed nerve.
“Matteo,” the voice outside called again, low, smooth, and laced with absolute certainty.
“Don’t embarrass yourself in front of your patrons.”
Luca Ferraro stepped toward the glass, his right hand buried deep beneath his tailored lapel.
He peered through the lace curtains and swore beneath his breath.
“It’s your brother,” Luca whispered, turning back toward Matteo.
“Dario brought four cars.”
“The entire sidewalk is blocked.”
Elena’s ears rang with the sheer absurdity of the unfolding nightmare.
Her apron felt like lead against her waist.
Her mind kept replaying the black-and-white image in Matteo’s hand.
Her mother, young and radiant with dark hair spilling over bare shoulders, smiling up at the very man standing before her.
And Isabella’s rounded stomach, swollen with life beneath an emerald dress.
Elena’s knees trembled so violently she had to catch the edge of Table Ten to stay upright.
Twenty-five years ago.
Her birthday was September nineteenth.
The math slammed into her skull with the force of a speeding locomotive.
Matteo slowly lowered the picture, sliding it smoothly into the breast pocket over his heart.
He turned his gaze toward Elena.
In those dark eyes, the cold detachment of a syndicate boss had shattered completely, leaving behind a terrifying, bottomless grief.
“Luca,” Matteo commanded, his voice dropping into a register that chilled the entire room.
“Clear the dining room through the dry-storage tunnel.”
“Give every guest their check on the house and escort them into private cars.”
“No police.”
“No scene.”
Luca nodded sharply and signaled the floor managers.
Waiters moved with urgent, hushed efficiency, ushering whispering patrons out through the service corridors.
The dining room emptied within minutes, leaving only half-finished steaks, melting tiramisu, and the sharp scent of burnt sauce.
Matteo walked toward the front entrance, his leather soles clicking against the pristine marble.
Elena did not move from the center aisle.
She stood frozen beside the plate of food that had set off this catastrophe.
Matteo unlocked the brass deadbolt and pulled the heavy door inward.
The cool autumn wind swept into Bellavita, carrying the smell of wet pavement and exhaust fumes.
Dario De Luca stepped over the threshold.
He looked older than Matteo, his silver hair cropped close to a skull that seemed carved from granite.
His camel-hair coat hung loosely around broad shoulders, and his eyes were the pale gray of river stones.
Behind him stood two broad-shouldered men in dark trench coats, their hands clasped loosely in front of them.
Dario smiled, but the warmth never reached his cold eyes.
“You closed early, little brother,” Dario said, glancing around the vacant dining room.
“On a Friday night?”
“Our father would have wept at the lost revenue.”
Matteo did not return the smile.
“What do you want, Dario?”
Dario brushed an invisible speck of lint from his lapel.
“I heard a rumor across town.”
“A little bird told me someone tried to serve you an old family specialty.”
Dario’s eyes drifted slowly across the empty tables until they locked onto Elena.
His smile widened, turning razor-thin.
Elena felt an icy chill crawl down her spine as the older man studied her face.
“Well, well,” Dario murmured, taking a deliberate step forward.
“Look what crawled out of the kitchen.”
“Stop right there,” Matteo said softly.
The threat in his tone was unmistakable.
Dario paused, chuckling under his breath.
“Relax, Matteo.”
“I merely came to ensure you hadn’t choked on your dinner.”
“You always were careless with what you put in your mouth.”
“Especially when Isabella was holding the spoon.”
The name fell like a bomb inside the silent room.
Elena gasped, clutching her hands against her stomach.
Dario turned his full attention toward her.
“You have her eyes, little girl,” Dario whispered, tilting his head.
“Big, frightened, and entirely too curious for your own good.”
“Did she teach you the secret ingredient before she died?”
“Did she tell you why that sauce burns the throat of a De Luca?”
Elena tried to speak, but her vocal cords seized in terror.
Matteo stepped between them, cutting off Dario’s line of sight with his wide frame.
“You planted Marco in my kitchen,” Matteo said, his voice flat and lethal.
“You gave him the vial.”
“You had him order Table Twelve’s special request.”
Dario raised his hands in mock innocence.
“Careful with your accusations, brother.”
“The Commission doesn't look kindly on fratricide without hard evidence.”
“And as far as anyone in Chicago knows, Isabella Rossi ran away twenty-five years ago because she couldn't stomach our world.”
“She stole from our father’s vault, broke her oath, and vanished into the gutter.”
“That is a lie,” Matteo said, his voice shaking with restrained rage.
“Is it?” Dario asked, raising a gray eyebrow.
“Ask the girl what Isabella left behind.”
“Ask her about the notebook.”
Elena’s heart skipped a beat.
The anonymous voice on the phone flashed through her mind.
Isabella should have kept her promise.
“You broke into my apartment,” Elena said, her voice shaking with righteous anger.
Both men turned toward her.
Elena stepped out from behind Matteo, defying the instinct that told her to run.
“You stole my mother’s recipes from my bedroom.”
“You put that book in my locker tonight.”
Dario’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of venomous disgust.
“Spitfire,” Dario hissed quietly.
“Just like the woman who birthed you.”
“You think you’re safe because you stand under Matteo’s shadow?”
“He couldn't save Isabella when the hammer fell.”
“He certainly won't save you.”
Dario turned on his heel and walked toward the door.
He stopped on the threshold, looking back over his shoulder.
“The Commission meets at midnight on Sunday, Matteo.”
“If that girl is still drawing breath in this city by then, I will present the notebook to Don Falcone myself.”
“And everyone will know who broke the bloodline first.”
Dario stepped out into the rain, his bodyguards following closely behind.
The black sedans sped away into the night, tires hissing against the wet asphalt.
The restaurant fell silent once more.
Matteo locked the deadbolt and turned to face Elena.
He pulled the photograph from his pocket and looked down at it.
Then he looked up into Elena’s eyes.
“Pack whatever you need from the staff room,” Matteo said quietly.
“You are never going back to your apartment.”
“Why?” Elena demanded, tears finally breaking free and spilling down her cheeks.
“Because Dario didn't want to kill me tonight,” Matteo replied, his voice breaking.
May you like
“He wanted to draw you out of hiding.”
“And now he knows you are my daughter.”
