Chapter 2 - Daddy Until Three-Thirty
At nine forty-five the next morning, Damiano Verrone stood outside Saint Catherine’s Academy holding a pink backpack.
He had negotiated international shipping contracts with governments.
He had faced men carrying guns.
He had once sat through eleven hours of questioning without asking for water.
None of that had prepared him for the backpack.
It had a unicorn hanging from the zipper.
Rafael stared at it.
Damiano looked at him.
“Say something.”
“I enjoy living.”
“Good answer.”
Clara came running down the school steps.
“You came!”
Every parent in the courtyard turned.
Damiano had made an effort not to arrive like Damiano Verrone.
No convoy.
No obvious security.
No armored SUV stopping directly at the entrance.
He wore a charcoal sweater beneath a dark coat rather than a suit.
Rafael had parked half a block away.
Two security men remained out of sight.
It had not helped.
People recognized him.
New Yorkers were very talented at pretending they did not notice famous or dangerous people.
The parents at Saint Catherine’s were failing spectacularly.
Mara followed Clara down the steps.
She looked tired.
And beautiful.
Damiano noticed the second fact and immediately disliked himself for it.
She wore dark jeans and a cream sweater rather than her housekeeping uniform. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders.
For the first time, she looked less like someone employed inside his estate and more like a woman.
“Mr. Verrone,” she said.
“Mara.”
Clara took his hand.
“We’re late.”
“We are fifteen minutes early.”
“Mrs. Henderson says early is on time.”
“Then Mrs. Henderson sounds exhausting.”
Clara laughed.
Mara tried not to.
Damiano saw it.
He liked the sound more than he should have.
Inside the classroom, twenty-two children had created paper family trees.
Some included photographs.
Some had glitter.
One had so much glue that the branches were falling off the poster board.
Clara’s was different.
Her tree had two branches.
MOMMY.
DADDY.
Beneath Mommy was a photograph of Mara.
Beneath Daddy was an empty square.
Damiano stopped.
Clara tugged his sleeve.
“I didn’t have a picture.”
Mara’s face tightened.
“You could have left it blank.”
“I did.”
“No,” Damiano said.
Both looked at him.
He took out his phone.
“What are you doing?” Mara asked.
“Fixing it.”
He handed the phone to Rafael, who had followed them inside despite insisting he intended to wait outside.
“Take a picture.”
Rafael blinked.
“Of you?”
“And Clara.”
Clara immediately moved beside Damiano.
“Mommy too.”
Mara shook her head.
“This is supposed to be—”
“Mommy.”
Clara gave her the expression children used when adults were being unreasonable.
Mara sighed and stood beside them.
Rafael raised the phone.
Damiano felt ridiculous.
Clara slipped one hand into his and one into Mara’s.
“Smile.”
Damiano did not.
Clara looked up.
“You have to.”
“I am.”
“No, you look like somebody stole your car.”
Rafael coughed.
Mara laughed.
Actually laughed.
Damiano turned toward her.
The photograph was taken at that exact moment.
Damiano looking at Mara.
Mara laughing.
Clara between them, grinning.
Hours later, that photograph would become evidence.
At that moment, it was simply the first family photograph Clara Sullivan had ever possessed.
Family Day began with introductions.
Children stood one by one and introduced whoever they had brought.
“My mom is a surgeon.”
“My daddy builds bridges.”
“My grandfather was in the Navy.”
When Clara’s turn came, she stood.
“This is my mommy.”
Mara smiled.
“And this is Mr. Verrone.”
A blond girl at the next table whispered loudly:
“That’s not your dad.”
Clara’s face fell.
Damiano looked at the girl.
Emma Brooks.
He knew immediately.
Clara sat down.
The teacher hurried forward.
“Emma, that wasn’t polite.”
“But she said—”
Damiano raised one finger.
The teacher stopped.
He crouched beside Clara.
“What did you ask me yesterday?”
“To borrow you.”
“For how long?”
“Until three-thirty.”
Damiano checked his watch.
“It is ten thirty-seven.”
Clara looked at him.
“So?”
“So unless time works differently inside this classroom, our agreement is still active.”
Clara’s mouth slowly curved into a smile.
Damiano stood and looked at Emma.
“I’m her father today.”
Emma blinked.
“Okay.”
“Excellent.”
Rafael, standing in the hallway, turned away so nobody would see him laughing.
Mara stared at Damiano.
Something inside her expression had softened.
That frightened him more than hostility would have.
Lunch was pizza.
Damiano had not eaten cafeteria pizza in thirty years.
Clara gave him the slice with fewer mushrooms because she had decided adults disliked mushrooms.
Mara watched him take a bite.
“Well?”
“I have eaten worse.”
“Where?”
“Prison.”
Mara nearly choked.
Clara’s eyes widened.
“You went to prison?”
“Briefly.”
“Why?”
Mara stared at him in horror.
Damiano calmly drank water.
“A misunderstanding.”
Rafael made a sound from the next table.
Damiano ignored him.
Clara leaned closer.
“Did you escape?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Thank you for your approval.”
The afternoon moved slowly.
There were songs.
A ridiculous three-legged race.
A family trivia game.
Damiano learned that Clara’s favorite food was grilled cheese, her favorite color was yellow, she hated peas, and she wanted to become either a veterinarian or a pirate.
Mara knew everything about her daughter.
Damiano knew almost nothing about children.
He found himself wanting to learn.
At two-fifteen, Clara disappeared into an art room with the other students to prepare their final presentation.
Mara and Damiano stood beneath a covered walkway overlooking the courtyard.
“You’re good with her,” Mara said.
“No.”
“You are.”
“I threatened another first grader with eye contact.”
“You did not threaten her.”
“She understood.”
Mara smiled despite herself.
Then became serious.
“Thank you.”
He looked at her.
“For showing up.”
“I said I would.”
“Most men say that.”
The bitterness had returned.
“Daniel?”
She stared into the courtyard.
“My father.”
Damiano said nothing.
“He left when I was nine,” Mara continued. “Daniel promised he would never be like him.”
“Was he?”
“No.”
Her answer was immediate.
“He adored Clara before she was even born.”
Damiano turned toward her.
“You were pregnant when he died?”
“Eight weeks.”
Something twisted inside him.
Lucia had been twelve weeks pregnant when she died.
Mara looked at him.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I know about your wife.”
Everyone did.
Damiano’s face closed.
Mara immediately regretted mentioning it.
“You don’t have to—”
“Lucia was pregnant.”
Mara stopped.
Damiano rarely spoke the sentence.
He had not said it aloud in nearly three years.
“She wanted a girl.”
His voice sounded unfamiliar to him.
“She said boys would inherit my stubbornness and girls would punish me for it.”
Mara smiled faintly.
“She sounds smart.”
“She was.”
“What happened?”
“Car accident.”
Their eyes met.
Two widowed people.
Two accidents.
Two unborn children, except one had survived because Mara had been carrying Clara when Daniel died.
Damiano wondered why he suddenly felt cold.
“Was Daniel driving?” he asked.
“No.”
“Who was?”
“A man from his office.”
“Name?”
“Peter Lang.”
Damiano knew the name.
Peter Lang had worked under Verrone chief financial officer Adrian Locke.
He had disappeared shortly after Daniel.
Damiano looked away.
“What?”
Mara had noticed.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
Before he could answer, Clara came running toward them carrying a paper crown.
“Daddy!”
The word struck all three of them.
Clara froze.
Mara stopped breathing.
Damiano stared down at the child.
Her cheeks turned bright red.
“I forgot.”
Damiano’s heart made one slow, painful movement.
“It’s all right.”
“You said I could only borrow you.”
“I did.”
“So I shouldn’t call you—”
“Clara.”
She looked up.
“You still have forty-seven minutes.”
Her smile returned.
“Okay.”
Then she ran back toward the classroom.
Mara turned away.
Damiano pretended not to see her wiping her eye.
At three twenty-nine, Clara stood outside the school gate.
She checked Damiano’s watch.
“One minute.”
“So it appears.”
She had become quieter as the afternoon ended.
Mara waited several feet away.
Damiano crouched.
“Did I complete the contract?”
Clara nodded.
“All six things?”
“Yes.”
“Even Emma Brooks?”
Clara smiled.
“Especially Emma.”
“Then why do you look unhappy?”
She twisted the strap of her backpack.
“Because when the minute ends, you aren’t my daddy anymore.”
Damiano had no answer.
He had known exactly how the day would end.
He had told Mara.
Three-thirty.
He would go home.
Simple.
The minute changed.
Clara looked at the watch.
Then at him.
“Our deal is over.”
“Yes.”
She tried to smile.
“Thank you for letting me borrow you.”
Damiano felt something crack inside the part of himself he had kept sealed for three years.
Clara hugged him.
He hugged her back.
This time without hesitation.
Then she took Mara’s hand and walked away.
Damiano stood on the sidewalk watching them.
Rafael came beside him.
“You all right?”
“No.”
“I assumed.”
Damiano turned.
“We need to discuss Daniel Sullivan.”
Rafael’s expression changed.
“You found something?”
“The death certificate is real.”
“And?”
“The dental records used to identify him came from Verrone Holdings.”
Damiano’s eyes hardened.
“Who authorized their release?”
Rafael hesitated.
“Adrian Locke.”
Damiano said nothing.
Adrian had been his father’s lawyer.
Later his CFO.
Later the family’s consigliere.
He had also been one of the first people at the hospital after Lucia died.
“And there’s more,” Rafael said.
“What?”
“The report says Daniel died November fourteenth.”
“I know.”
“The company theft wasn’t discovered until November nineteenth.”
Damiano’s blood went cold.
That was worse than he remembered.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning someone accused a dead man of stealing money five days after he died.”
Damiano stared down the street.
Mara and Clara had disappeared around the corner.
“Find everything Daniel touched during his final six months at Verrone Holdings.”
“I already started.”
“Quietly.”
“Of course.”
Rafael hesitated.
“One more thing.”
Damiano looked at him.
“Your school picture is online.”
“What?”
Rafael showed him his phone.
Someone had photographed the photograph on Clara’s family tree.
A gossip account had posted it.
MAFIA KING PLAYS DADDY FOR MYSTERY MAID’S DAUGHTER.
Thirty thousand views.
And rising.
Damiano swore.
Then he saw something in the photograph.
Not himself.
Not Mara.
Clara.
Around Clara’s wrist was a thin silver bracelet.
A tiny charm hung from it.
A red enamel heart.
Damiano took the phone.
“Zoom in.”
Rafael did.
Damiano stopped breathing.
He knew that bracelet.
He had bought it in Florence eight years ago.
For Lucia.
She wore it constantly.
It disappeared after her death.
Damiano looked at Rafael.
“Where did Clara get that?”
“I have no idea.”
Damiano was already walking toward the car.
Mara opened her apartment door at five twelve.
Damiano stood outside.
She looked stunned.
“How did you find—”
“Where did Clara get the bracelet?”
Mara froze.
Behind her, Clara was watching television.
Damiano lowered his voice.
“The silver one with the red heart.”
Mara’s expression changed.
Fear.
Real fear.
“Who gave it to her?”
Mara looked toward Clara.
Then stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her.
“Lucia.”
The world stopped.
Damiano stared at her.
“You knew my wife?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Mara’s eyes filled.
“She found me after Daniel died.”
“Why?”
“Because Daniel had been working with her.”
Damiano felt the floor disappear beneath him.
“Working on what?”
Mara whispered:
“Finding out who inside your family was stealing from you.”
Damiano said nothing.
“And before Lucia died,” Mara continued, “she came to see me one last time.”
“When?”
“Four days before the crash.”
“What did she say?”
Mara’s voice shook.
“She said if anything happened to her, I should never trust the police.”
Damiano felt ice move through his veins.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
May you like
Mara looked straight into his eyes.
“She said I should never trust Adrian Locke.”
