Chapter 1 - The Girl Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
The black SUV waiting outside my restaurant had tinted windows, a driver who looked like he'd never smiled in his life, and two enormous men standing beside the rear passenger door.
And apparently, they were there for me.
I'd spent twenty-six years successfully avoiding trouble. I paid my rent, stayed out of other people's business, and apologized when strangers bumped into me on the subway.
Now, because I'd scratched a dog behind the ears, I was apparently being summoned by the most dangerous man in New York.
My manager, Gerard Walsh, looked as though he was about to suffer a heart attack.
"Olivia," he whispered, "please don't make this difficult."
I stared at him.
"Make what difficult? I haven't even done anything."
"Mr. Moretti doesn't appreciate being kept waiting."
"Then Mr. Moretti should have made a reservation."
Gerard closed his eyes.
For a moment, I thought he might actually faint.
"Please," he said. "Whatever you do, don't say that to him."
I looked through the restaurant's front windows.
One of the men beside the SUV was speaking into a small earpiece. The other stood with his hands folded in front of him, looking completely unimpressed by the impatient Manhattan traffic rushing past.
Neither man looked like someone who had come to discuss a dog's emotional well-being.
"Am I in trouble?" I asked.
Gerard swallowed.
"I don't know."
That was not the answer I wanted.
"What exactly did Mr. Moretti discover about me?"
My manager glanced toward the windows again.
"He didn't explain."
"Then I'm not getting into a strange car with two men I don't know."
"Olivia—"
"No."
I surprised myself with how firmly the word came out.
I was exhausted, underpaid, and one missed paycheck away from falling behind on rent. But I wasn't stupid.
"I don't care how rich he is," I continued. "If he wants to talk to me, he can come inside."
Gerard stared at me in horror.
Then the restaurant door opened.
The taller security guard approached us.
He was probably in his early thirties, with dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and the alert expression of a man who noticed every exit before entering a room.
"Miss Marshall?"
I lifted my chin.
"That's me."
"My name is Rafael Cruz. I work for Mr. Moretti."
"Congratulations."
Gerard made a strangled noise.
Rafael's expression remained professional, although something briefly flickered in his eyes.
"Mr. Moretti would like to speak with you."
"Then he can call me."
"He would prefer a private conversation."
"And I would prefer to finish my shift without being kidnapped."
For the first time, Rafael almost smiled.
"Nobody is kidnapping you, ma'am."
"Good. Then we're making progress."
He reached into his jacket.
I immediately took a step backward.
Instead of a weapon, he produced a phone.
"Mr. Moretti," he said quietly, "she doesn't want to get into the vehicle."
There was a pause.
Then Rafael listened to something through the phone.
His expression changed.
"Understood."
He lowered the device.
"Mr. Moretti says he respects your decision."
I blinked.
"He does?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you still standing here?"
"Because he also said to tell you that Orion is in the car."
My eyes moved toward the SUV.
"Orion?"
Rafael nodded.
"He hasn't eaten anything since you left last night."
I felt an unexpected pang of concern.
"Not even his breakfast?"
"Not even his favorite treats."
"Did you call a veterinarian?"
"Twice."
"And?"
"Both examinations were normal."
I hesitated.
Behind Rafael, the SUV's rear door opened.
A giant black head appeared.
Two amber eyes found me immediately.
Then came a sound so heartbreaking that every ounce of caution I'd been holding dissolved.
Orion whined.
"Oh, sweetheart."
I stepped past Rafael before I could stop myself.
The dog practically launched himself out of the vehicle.
"Orion!" Rafael shouted.
The enormous animal ignored him.
He crossed the sidewalk in three powerful strides, shoved his head against my stomach, and began wagging his tail so enthusiastically that his entire body moved.
I laughed.
"Hey, big guy! Did you miss me?"
Orion pressed closer.
His tail struck Rafael's leg.
The security guard stood absolutely motionless.
"Unbelievable," he muttered.
I crouched in front of the dog.
"What's all this drama about, huh? You can't refuse breakfast just because someone scratched your ears."
Orion licked my cheek.
"Okay. That's disgusting."
I laughed again and rubbed the thick fur around his neck.
Behind me, a deep voice spoke.
"He hasn't done that for anyone in three years."
I looked up.
The man from table twelve was standing beside the open SUV.
In daylight, he was even more intimidating.
He wore a charcoal coat over a black suit. His dark hair was neatly cut, his jaw was shadowed with stubble, and a faint scar crossed one eyebrow.
His gray eyes were fixed on me.
Dante Moretti.
I'd learned his name only ten minutes earlier, when Gerard had practically whispered it like a prayer.
Every employee in the restaurant knew the Moretti family.
Their name appeared on luxury apartment buildings, shipping companies, private clubs, and charitable foundations all over New York.
It also appeared in news reports involving federal investigations, organized crime, and people who vanished under suspicious circumstances.
I stood slowly.
"Mr. Moretti."
"Olivia."
The way he said my name made me uncomfortable.
Not because it sounded threatening.
Because it sounded familiar.
As though he'd been saying it to himself all morning.
"Your dog seems perfectly healthy," I said. "Maybe he's just lonely."
Dante looked at Orion.
"He isn't usually affectionate."
"Maybe you should stop telling him that. It's terrible for his confidence."
Rafael coughed into his fist.
Dante didn't react.
Instead, he studied me.
"Do you have a few minutes?"
"For what?"
"A conversation."
"About your dog?"
"Partly."
I crossed my arms.
"What's the other part?"
Something changed in his expression.
It was subtle, but unmistakable.
"Your childhood."
A strange chill passed through me.
"My childhood?"
"Yes."
"Why would you want to know about that?"
Dante glanced toward the restaurant.
"Because some information about you doesn't make sense."
I stared at him.
"I'm a waitress, Mr. Moretti. I was born in New York, raised by my mother, and currently live in an apartment with a radiator that sounds like it's trying to escape through the wall. There isn't much mystery."
"Who was your mother?"
I stiffened.
"Excuse me?"
"Her name."
"Grace Marshall."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"Was she a nurse?"
My stomach dropped.
"How do you know that?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked toward Rafael.
"Give us a moment."
The security guard stepped away.
Orion remained beside my leg.
Dante reached into his coat and removed a folded piece of paper.
"I need you to look at something."
He offered it to me.
I hesitated before accepting it.
It was a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping.
The headline read:
WAREHOUSE FIRE CLAIMS SIX LIVES ON BROOKLYN WATERFRONT
Below the headline was a photograph of a burned building.
The article was dated November 13, 2008.
I frowned.
"What is this?"
"Look at the names."
I scanned the first paragraph.
Six victims.
One woman.
Three unidentified men.
Two children.
My eyes stopped on a familiar first name.
Olivia Bennett, age eight.
Something tightened inside my chest.
Dante watched me carefully.
"Does that name mean anything to you?"
I looked up.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"Look at the photograph on the back."
I turned the paper over.
Someone had printed a second image.
It showed a little girl standing beside a woman outside a brick building.
The girl had dark blonde hair, blue-green eyes, and a missing front tooth.
She wore a yellow raincoat.
Around her neck hung a small silver necklace.
A five-pointed star.
My heart stopped.
I knew that necklace.
I was wearing it.
Slowly, I reached beneath my uniform collar and pulled out the silver chain I'd worn for as long as I could remember.
The little star rested against my palm.
Dante's eyes dropped to it.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I whispered, "Where did you get this picture?"
"From my sister's files."
"Who is the girl?"
His expression hardened.
"According to the official records, her name was Olivia Bennett."
My fingers tightened around the necklace.
"And?"
"She died in that fire."
The sidewalk seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
I looked at the photograph again.
The little girl's face was painfully familiar.
Not exactly like mine.
But enough.
More than enough.
"That doesn't mean anything," I whispered.
Dante remained silent.
"I mean, children look alike. And necklaces like this aren't exactly rare."
"Turn it over again."
I did.
Beneath the newspaper clipping was a photocopy of a death certificate.
The name stood out in bold letters.
OLIVIA ROSE BENNETT.
Date of birth: May 7, 2000.
Date of death: November 12, 2008.
I stared at the page.
May 7.
My birthday.
My exact birthday.
My mouth went dry.
"That could be a coincidence."
Dante's voice softened.
"I hope it is."
I looked at him sharply.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I need to understand why a woman who died eighteen years ago appears to be standing in front of me."
For one terrifying moment, I couldn't breathe.
Orion pressed his head against my knee.
The familiar weight steadied me.
I looked down at the dog, then back at Dante.
"You're making a mistake."
"Maybe."
"My mother raised me. I have school records, photographs, a birth certificate—"
"I know."
"Then what is this?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out."
I shook my head.
"No. I'm not doing this."
I handed him the papers.
"Whatever you're investigating, it has nothing to do with me."
I turned toward the restaurant.
"Olivia."
I stopped.
His next words were quiet.
"Did your mother ever tell you why you don't have any photographs of yourself before you were nine?"
My entire body went cold.
Because it was true.
I had exactly one childhood photograph from before that age.
A blurry picture of me standing beside Grace in a hospital hallway.
I looked about eight or nine.
Every other photograph began afterward.
Whenever I'd asked about the missing years, Grace said we'd lost everything during a move.
She'd always looked sad when she said it.
I'd stopped asking.
Slowly, I turned back.
"How do you know about my photographs?"
"I don't. I was asking."
"Why?"
"Because Grace Marshall appeared in the records surrounding that fire."
My breathing quickened.
"She worked at a hospital."
"Yes."
"Lots of nurses treat fire victims."
"That's true."
"Then stop making this sound like something it isn't."
Dante studied me.
"I don't want to frighten you."
"You're doing a terrible job."
Something almost like regret crossed his face.
Then he stepped away from the SUV.
"You don't have to go anywhere with me. You don't have to answer another question."
I blinked.
"Really?"
"Really."
He reached into his coat and removed a business card.
"Take this."
I stared at it.
"Why?"
"Because if anyone contacts you about that fire, I want you to call me."
"Why would anyone contact me?"
His expression became unreadable.
"Because I may not be the only person who recognizes that photograph."
I didn't take the card.
Dante placed it on the low stone wall beside us.
Then he looked down at Orion.
"Come."
The dog didn't move.
"Orion."
Nothing.
Instead, Orion leaned against my leg.
Dante stared at him.
"You're making this very difficult."
I sighed and crouched.
"Listen, handsome. Your dad wants you to go home."
Orion lowered his head.
"Don't look at me like that."
His ears drooped.
"Oh, that's unfair."
I scratched beneath his chin.
"You have to eat your dinner, okay? And stop worrying everybody."
Orion licked my fingers.
"Good boy."
Then, to my astonishment, he turned and walked directly toward Dante.
Rafael opened the door.
The enormous dog climbed inside without protest.
Dante watched him settle into the backseat.
Then his gaze returned to me.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For getting him to listen."
I shrugged.
"He's a good dog."
Dante's expression darkened.
"He wasn't always treated like one."
Before I could ask what he meant, Rafael spoke quietly into his earpiece.
Something in the security guard's expression changed.
He stepped closer to Dante.
"We have a problem."
Dante didn't look away from me.
"What kind?"
Rafael hesitated.
"The records request."
"What about it?"
"Someone else accessed the same file twenty minutes ago."
Dante went still.
"Who?"
"We're checking."
Their conversation was beginning to frighten me.
I stepped backward.
"I need to get to work."
Dante finally nodded.
"Go."
I turned and hurried inside.
But I couldn't stop myself from looking through the glass doors.
Dante was still standing on the sidewalk.
Rafael said something into his ear.
Whatever it was, Dante's entire expression changed.
He looked toward me one final time.
Then he gave an order.
Rafael immediately reached for his phone.
The SUV pulled away less than a minute later.
I stood behind the hostess station, trembling.
Gerard approached me.
"Well?"
I swallowed.
"Well what?"
"Are you still employed?"
I looked at him.
"Apparently."
He released a breath.
"Thank God."
Then he lowered his voice.
"What did Mr. Moretti want?"
I hesitated.
For some reason, I didn't want to tell him.
"He wanted to know about his dog."
Gerard stared.
"That's all?"
"That's all."
He looked unconvinced, but a customer called for his attention before he could question me further.
I returned to work.
Or tried to.
Throughout the afternoon, I dropped a fork, forgot a drink order, and nearly walked into the kitchen door twice.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the little girl in the yellow raincoat.
Olivia Bennett.
Eight years old.
Dead.
And wearing my necklace.
At six thirty, I asked Gerard if I could leave early.
He looked irritated but agreed after I promised to cover Saturday's lunch shift.
I collected my coat and stepped outside.
The rain had started.
I walked three blocks before realizing I was being followed.
At first, I thought I was imagining things.
Then I noticed the same dark sedan turning the corner behind me.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
My pulse quickened.
I crossed the street.
The car crossed with me.
I stopped outside a pharmacy.
The sedan stopped half a block away.
Two men sat inside.
Neither looked familiar.
I reached into my pocket.
My fingers closed around the business card I'd taken from the stone wall before returning to the restaurant.
I hadn't even realized I'd picked it up.
DANTE MORETTI.
A phone number beneath it.
I stared at the card.
Then at the sedan.
Then I made the call.
It connected after one ring.
"Olivia?"
I froze.
He knew it was me.
"Mr. Moretti?"
"Where are you?"
My stomach dropped.
"How did you—"
"Where are you?"
There was something in his voice I'd never heard before.
Fear.
I looked at the street sign.
"West Twenty-Third. Near Seventh Avenue."
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"Is someone following you?"
I turned slowly.
The sedan's driver's door opened.
A man stepped onto the sidewalk.
He wore a dark jacket and kept one hand inside his pocket.
"Yes," I whispered.
Dante's voice became deadly calm.
"Listen carefully. Go into the pharmacy. Stay where people can see you. Don't confront him."
My throat tightened.
"Why is this happening?"
"Because someone knows who you are."
The man began walking toward me.
I hurried inside.
The pharmacy clerk looked up.
I forced myself to smile.
"Hi. Can I stand here for a minute? I think someone is following me."
The clerk's expression changed immediately.
"Of course."
She reached for the phone beneath the counter.
Outside, the man stopped near the window.
He stared directly at me.
Then he lifted his phone.
And smiled.
I felt sick.
"Dante," I whispered.
"I'm here."
"The man outside is taking my picture."
For the first time, Dante's composure broke.
"Olivia, don't let him get close to you."
"Who is he?"
There was a terrible pause.
Then Dante said something that made every hair on my body rise.
"He's someone who worked for the man who ordered that fire."
I gripped the phone.
"What fire?"
But I already knew.
The warehouse.
The dead little girl.
The silver necklace.
Dante continued, his voice hard.
"And Olivia?"
"Yes?"
"That man has spent eighteen years believing you were dead."
Outside, the stranger raised his phone again.
This time, he wasn't taking a photograph.
He was speaking to someone.
Then he looked at me through the glass and mouthed three words.
Found you, sweetheart.
My knees almost gave way.
And somewhere deep inside my mind, a memory stirred.
Smoke.
A woman screaming.
A small hand gripping mine.
And a man's voice saying:
"Make sure the little girl doesn't get out."
I stumbled backward.
For eighteen years, I'd believed my childhood was ordinary.
May you like
Now a stranger was waiting outside to prove that it wasn't.
And the only person who seemed to know why was a Mafia boss whose terrifying dog had somehow recognized me before anyone else did.
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