Chapter 2 - The Photograph on the Kitchen Floor
By the time I got home that night, I had convinced myself Roman DeLuca and his problems would never enter my life again.
That belief lasted eleven minutes.
Our apartment was on the third floor of an aging brick building in Albany Park, above a laundromat that never seemed to close.
Leo was asleep on the couch when I walked in.
My neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, looked up from the television.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean worse than usual.”
“Much better.”
She pointed toward Leo.
“Fever went down a little.”
I touched his forehead.
Still warm.
His dark curls were damp with sweat.
Guilt pressed into my chest.
“Did he eat?”
“Half a banana. Some soup.”
I looked at the clock.
The pharmacy closed in twenty minutes.
My wallet contained twelve dollars.
Mrs. Alvarez must have seen something in my expression.
“How much is the prescription?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“That was not my question.”
“Fifty-six.”
She immediately reached for her purse.
“No.”
“Natalie.”
“No.”
“You help me with groceries every week.”
“That is different.”
“It is exactly the same.”
Before I could argue, someone knocked.
Three slow knocks.
Mrs. Alvarez frowned.
“You expecting someone?”
“No.”
I moved toward the door.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery.”
I opened it two inches with the chain still attached.
A teenage pharmacy courier stood outside holding a paper bag.
“Natalie Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“Prescription for Leo Brooks.”
I stared.
“I didn’t order delivery.”
“It’s paid.”
My jaw tightened.
Roman.
Of course.
“Who paid?”
The teenager shrugged.
“Online account.”
I accepted the bag because Leo needed it.
But the moment the door closed, I pulled Roman’s card from my pocket and borrowed Mrs. Alvarez’s phone.
He answered after one ring.
“Natalie.”
“How did you get my address?”
Silence.
“That is your first question?”
“It’s the only question that matters.”
“I had your employee file.”
“That is deeply unsettling.”
“I own the company that owns LaRue.”
“Still unsettling.”
“Did the medicine arrive?”
“You had no right.”
“He needs it.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to dig through my information.”
“I didn’t dig. I asked human resources.”
“That sentence did not improve anything.”
Mrs. Alvarez watched me with fascination.
Roman sighed.
“Keep the antibiotics.”
“I obviously will. My son needs them.”
“Good.”
“But don’t do anything like this again.”
There was a pause.
“You are difficult.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Frequently?”
“Usually by men who assume money makes boundaries optional.”
Marcus laughed somewhere in the background.
Roman said something away from the phone.
The laughter stopped.
“Tomorrow,” Roman said, “you should stay home.”
“I have a shift.”
“You’re being paid.”
“I don’t want paid leave.”
“This is not charity.”
“What is it?”
“Security.”
My annoyance faded.
“What does that mean?”
“The man who attacked me used LaRue’s employee entrance.”
“You think it was David?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because David Keller is a coward.”
“That seems accurate.”
“He humiliates people he considers beneath him. He cheats vendors. He steals from tip pools. He does not put knives into men who can retaliate.”
My stomach tightened.
“You know about the tip pools?”
“I do now.”
“So why are you telling me not to work?”
“Because the person who attacked me knows someone interfered.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Do they know it was me?”
“We don’t know.”
“That means yes.”
“It means we don’t know.”
“You say things very calmly for someone discussing whether a murderer knows where I work.”
“I am trying not to frighten you.”
“You arrived at my workplace with armed men.”
“Marcus has permits.”
“That isn’t comforting.”
Roman was silent.
Then his voice softened.
“Natalie, listen to me. I don’t think you are in immediate danger. But until I know who attacked me, I want you away from LaRue.”
I looked toward Leo.
He shifted beneath his blanket.
“What about my job?”
“You still have it.”
“Who is managing the restaurant?”
“Corporate sent someone.”
“And David?”
“Suspended.”
“Because of me?”
“Because of him.”
That answer mattered more than I wanted it to.
“Fine,” I said. “One day.”
“Three.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“One.”
He exhaled.
“You negotiate badly.”
“I’m not negotiating.”
I hung up.
Mrs. Alvarez stared at me.
“Who was that?”
“The reason Leo’s medicine is here.”
She lifted an eyebrow.
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“He has a nice voice.”
“You heard three words.”
“I heard enough.”
I rolled my eyes.
At seven the next morning, someone knocked again.
This time it was not a delivery driver.
Marcus stood outside.
He wore jeans, a black jacket, and the expression of a man who probably considered smiling a security vulnerability.
“Morning.”
I stared.
“No.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You’re Roman’s person.”
“I prefer head of security.”
“No.”
Marcus almost smiled.
“Mr. DeLuca asked me to bring you this.”
He held out an envelope.
“I’m not taking money.”
“It isn’t money.”
Inside were printed photographs.
Security footage.
My stomach turned.
One image showed Roman entering the alley alone.
Another showed a hooded figure following him.
The final photograph captured the figure turning slightly beneath a streetlight.
Most of the face was hidden.
But I recognized the jacket.
Black with a silver stripe along the shoulder.
LaRue staff jackets.
“We have eighty-four employees,” I whispered.
“Look closer.”
I did.
The person’s right hand was visible.
A small tattoo covered the thumb.
A black triangle.
I had seen it before.
Not on David.
On one of the kitchen porters.
“Eddie.”
Marcus’s expression sharpened.
“Full name?”
“Eddie Ramos. He works prep and dish rotation.”
“Are you sure?”
“He has that tattoo.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“He didn’t clock in last night.”
Cold moved through me.
I handed the photos back.
“You need police.”
Marcus stared at me.
“We’re talking to them.”
I wasn’t sure whether I believed him.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because we checked Ramos’s employee records.”
“And?”
“The address is fake. Social Security number belongs to a dead man in Arizona. Phone is prepaid.”
My stomach tightened.
“He wasn’t really Eddie Ramos.”
“No.”
“So he took a job at LaRue because Roman goes there?”
“Possibly.”
“How long did he work there?”
“Seven months.”
Seven months.
That was not an impulsive attack.
Someone had planned it.
Marcus’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“When?”
Silence.
“Send it.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
His phone vibrated.
A photograph appeared.
Marcus looked at it.
Then at me.
“What?”
He turned the screen around.
My heart stopped.
It was a photograph of me.
Standing outside Leo’s elementary school three days earlier.
I was holding his hand.
Leo was laughing at something.
The photo had been taken from across the street.
Beneath it was a message.
SHE SHOULD HAVE KEPT WALKING.
I stopped breathing.
Marcus stepped inside and closed the door.
“Where is your son?”
“Right there.”
I pointed toward the couch.
“Wake him.”
“What?”
“Now.”
Panic surged.
“Why?”
“Because whoever sent this knows who you are.”
Mrs. Alvarez emerged from the hallway.
“What’s happening?”
Marcus looked toward the window.
“We need to move.”
“Move where?”
“Somewhere secure.”
“No.”
“Natalie.”
“I’m not taking my son into some criminal fortress.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened.
“You can hate Roman later.”
“I don’t hate him.”
“Then that saves time.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His phone vibrated again.
Another photograph.
Our apartment building.
Taken that morning.
My knees almost failed.
Marcus spoke quietly.
“They know where you live.”
I looked at Leo.
Five years old.
Feverish.
Sleeping beneath his dinosaur blanket.
All because his mother had refused to let a stranger die.
“Give me ten minutes.”
Marcus nodded.
“You have five.”
Roman’s home was not what I expected.
I imagined a glass penthouse filled with black marble and armed men.
Instead, we drove forty minutes north to an estate near Lake Michigan surrounded by old trees and stone walls.
The house itself looked nearly a century old.
Gray limestone.
Tall windows.
Ivy.
Security cameras hidden beneath the roofline.
Leo woke during the drive.
“Mom?”
“I’m here.”
“Where are we going?”
“To visit someone.”
“Who?”
I hesitated.
“A friend.”
Marcus glanced at me through the mirror.
I glared.
He looked away.
Roman was standing in the entrance hall when we arrived.
He wore dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
No jacket.
No tie.
For the first time, he looked less like a dangerous legend and more like a man who had been stabbed less than twenty-four hours earlier.
Then I noticed the bandage visible beneath his shirt.
“You should be in bed,” I said.
Roman raised an eyebrow.
“Hello to you too.”
“This is temporary.”
His eyes moved to Leo.
Everything about his face changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
Leo hid behind my leg.
Roman crouched carefully despite the obvious pain.
“You must be Leo.”
Leo peeked out.
“Who are you?”
“Roman.”
“My mom said you’re her friend.”
Roman looked at me.
I silently threatened him with my eyes.
He returned his attention to Leo.
“Your mother saved my life.”
Leo stepped out.
“Like Spider-Man?”
“Better.”
My throat tightened.
Leo stared at the bandage.
“Did a bad guy hurt you?”
Roman paused.
“Yes.”
“Did my mom punch him?”
“No.”
“She can.”
“I believe you.”
Leo seemed satisfied.
Roman stood.
Too quickly.
His face went white.
I grabbed his arm instinctively.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You almost fainted.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Marcus walked past us.
“Good luck, boss.”
Roman glared.
I guided him toward a chair.
“Where is your doctor?”
“On his way.”
“You ripped stitches?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
He gave me an irritated look.
I suddenly remembered who he was.
Then realized I didn’t care.
“Sit.”
He sat.
Leo climbed onto the chair beside him.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Shots hurt too.”
“I’ve heard.”
“I didn’t cry last time.”
Roman looked at him solemnly.
“That’s impressive.”
“I cried a little.”
“Still impressive.”
Watching them made something strange tighten inside me.
I pushed it away.
Roman’s expression hardened as he looked at Marcus.
“Show her.”
Marcus placed a tablet on the table.
More photographs appeared.
The hooded attacker.
Eddie.
The restaurant.
Then another image.
A dark sedan outside my building.
“This vehicle followed you twice last week,” Roman said.
I stared.
“That was before I met you.”
“Yes.”
A chill moved across my skin.
“Then this isn’t because I saved you.”
“We don’t know.”
“Why would anyone follow me before yesterday?”
Roman looked at Marcus.
Marcus hesitated.
My fear turned to anger.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Roman stood slowly.
“There’s something you need to understand about LaRue.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t simply one of my restaurants.”
“Then what was it?”
“A meeting location.”
“For what?”
Roman’s gaze held mine.
“For people who did not want meetings recorded.”
I felt sick.
“You used a restaurant full of innocent employees for criminal meetings?”
His jaw tightened.
“Not criminal.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“My father built an organization that was not entirely legal.”
“Not entirely?”
“Extortion. Gambling. Smuggling.”
I grabbed Leo’s shoulder.
Roman continued.
“When my father died, I inherited more than his legitimate companies.”
“You’re mafia.”
Leo looked between us.
“What’s mafia?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly.
Roman’s voice remained calm.
“I have spent seven years dismantling the illegal parts of my father’s organization without starting a war that gets innocent people killed.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You expect me to believe you’re some misunderstood gangster?”
“No.”
“What do you want me to believe?”
“That someone is trying to stop me from finishing.”
“Why?”
“Because illegal businesses make powerful men very rich.”
Marcus tapped the screen.
A document appeared.
Employee schedules.
“Someone inside LaRue was recording meetings,” Roman said.
I frowned.
“Who?”
“We thought Eddie.”
“You don’t anymore?”
Roman looked directly at me.
“No.”
Marcus changed the image.
This one showed a photograph taken in the LaRue kitchen.
I was in the background carrying plates.
Near the freezer door, a man in a suit handed David Keller a small envelope.
I recognized him.
He had eaten at LaRue at least a dozen times.
Always private room six.
His name was Sebastian Vale.
One of Chicago’s most famous real-estate developers.
Roman pointed toward him.
“Sebastian Marchesi.”
“That isn’t the name he uses.”
“I know.”
“Who is he?”
Roman’s face went cold.
“My father’s oldest friend.”
I looked at the photograph.
“And?”
“And the man who taught me how to shoot when I was twelve.”
Something in his voice frightened me more than the armed guards.
“You think he ordered your murder.”
“I think he ordered many things.”
Marcus swiped again.
Another picture appeared.
This one made the room tilt.
My father.
I hadn’t seen his face in eleven years.
He stood beside Sebastian Marchesi outside a warehouse.
“What the hell is this?”
Roman watched me carefully.
“You recognize him?”
“That’s my father.”
Leo looked up.
“My grandpa?”
I couldn’t speak.
My father, Daniel Brooks, had disappeared when I was twenty.
Police said he probably ran.
Debts.
Gambling.
A second family.
Pick a rumor.
My mother never believed it.
Neither had I.
Roman’s next words changed everything I thought I knew about my life.
“Your father worked for Sebastian.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Natalie—”
“No.”
“He was an accountant.”
“My father repaired elevators.”
“That was his legitimate job.”
My hands trembled.
“What happened to him?”
Roman glanced at Marcus.
Then back at me.
“We believe Daniel Brooks discovered where Sebastian was hiding money.”
The room went silent.
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
The exact year my father vanished.
My voice barely worked.
“What happened?”
Roman hesitated.
That told me the answer before he said it.
“We believe Sebastian killed him.”
I stepped backward.
My hand covered my mouth.
Leo hugged my leg.
Then Marcus’s phone rang again.
He answered.
His expression hardened.
“Yes.”
He walked toward the window.
“Lock it down.”
Roman turned.
“What?”
Marcus looked at me.
Then Roman.
“Security found someone at Natalie’s apartment.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
Marcus swallowed.
“David Keller.”
I stared.
“What was he doing there?”
May you like
Marcus’s voice was grim.
“Looking for something.”
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