Chapter 2 - The Message on the BillLorenzo’s office was smaller than Serena expected.
There was no extravagant bar.
No gold furniture.
No flashy trophies.
Just dark wood, a leather desk, two chairs, and a large window overlooking the Chicago River.
Lorenzo stood beside the window with his back turned.
“You took fourteen minutes.”
Serena looked at the clock.
“I was finishing the table.”
“Good.”
He turned.
“Give me the bill.”
She handed it over.
His eyes moved across the paper.
Then stopped.
The room changed.
Serena noticed immediately.
“What is R-17?”
Lorenzo didn't answer.
“Mr. Duca?”
“Who showed you this?”
“No one.”
“Why did you bring it to me?”
She hesitated.
“Mr. Miller told me to.”
Lorenzo’s expression hardened.
“You spoke with Arthur Miller?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“That someone is trying to kill him.”
Lorenzo's eyes narrowed.
Serena continued.
“And that the person knows they're here.”
Lorenzo walked around the desk.
“Where are they?”
“Still in the dining room.”
“Did anyone approach their table?”
“No.”
“Did anyone approach you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone leave?”
She thought.
“The man at the bar.”
Lorenzo stopped.
“What man?”
“Navy suit.”
“What did he do?”
“He looked at me.”
“Anything else?”
“He smiled.”
Lorenzo cursed under his breath.
Then he touched the communication device on his desk.
“Marco.”
A voice answered.
“Yes.”
“Lock the restaurant.”
Serena's eyes widened.
“Lock it?”
“No one leaves.”
She stared at him.
“That seems extreme.”
Lorenzo looked at her.
“I didn't ask for your opinion.”
She folded her arms.
“You're holding a restaurant full of people because one man looked at me?”
“No.”
He held up the receipt.
“I'm holding them because someone used your hands to deliver a message.”
Serena's stomach tightened.
“What does R-17 mean?”
Lorenzo placed the bill on the desk.
“Room Seventeen.”
“Where?”
“The old Saint Vincent Hotel.”
“Why does that matter?”
“It was demolished eighteen years ago.”
Serena stared.
Lorenzo took a photograph from a drawer.
It showed a young man and woman standing in front of an old hotel.
The man was Arthur Miller.
The woman was younger.
Serena looked at the second photograph.
Arthur.
Rose.
And a third person.
A woman with auburn hair.
Serena stopped breathing.
“That’s my mother.”
Lorenzo's gaze sharpened.
“You recognize her?”
“Yes.”
“What was her name?”
“Elizabeth Bennett.”
Lorenzo went still.
“Bennett?”
Serena nodded.
“Why?”
He looked at her differently now.
“That's what I'm trying to figure out.”
Serena took the photograph.
“When did they know her?”
“Twenty-two years ago.”
“My mother worked at Saint Vincent.”
“What did she do?”
“Hotel accounting.”
Lorenzo studied her.
“Did she ever mention Arthur Miller?”
“No.”
“Rose?”
“No.”
“Me?”
Serena frowned.
“You were seventeen.”
Lorenzo shook his head.
“No.”
“Then when?”
He did not answer.
Instead, he opened a drawer and removed a worn leather folder.
Inside was a list of names.
One name had been circled.
ELIZABETH BENNETT.
Serena looked at him.
“You knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She saved my life.”
Serena stared.
Lorenzo continued.
“I was nineteen.”
“My mother saved you?”
“She hid me from men who wanted me dead.”
“What happened?”
“She disappeared the next morning.”
Serena felt something twist inside her.
“My mother died when I was fifteen.”
Lorenzo looked genuinely surprised.
“She told me you were five.”
“What?”
“I didn't know you existed.”
Neither did Serena know that someone had spent years keeping her existence from Lorenzo.
Then the lights went out.
A gunshot cracked through the restaurant.
Serena screamed.
Lorenzo grabbed her and pulled her behind his desk.
“Stay down.”
More gunfire.
Glass shattered.
Guests screamed.
Lorenzo drew a weapon.
Serena crouched beside the desk.
“Arthur and Rose!”
Lorenzo looked toward the door.
“Marco!”
A voice shouted from outside.
“We have them!”
Three gunshots.
Then silence.
Lorenzo looked at Serena.
“You stay here.”
He moved toward the door.
She grabbed his sleeve.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“The bill.”
He looked down.
It was gone.
Serena’s face went pale.
Someone had taken it.
The office door opened.
Marco entered.
“Everyone’s secured.”
“Anyone caught?”
“One suspect fled through the kitchen.”
“Get him.”
Marco nodded.
Lorenzo looked at Serena.
“How did they get the bill?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know.”
Marco looked at her.
“Wait.”
He reached toward her apron.
Serena stiffened.
“What?”
He pulled out a small folded piece of paper.
“This wasn't here before.”
Lorenzo took it.
He unfolded the note.
Three words.
YOUR MOTHER LIED.
Serena's hands began shaking.
Lorenzo saw.
He moved closer.
“Breathe.”
She stared at him.
“My mother wouldn't lie to me.”
“She might have.”
“Why?”
“Because she was protecting you.”
“From whom?”
He looked toward the restaurant.
“Everyone.”
That night, Lorenzo personally drove Serena home.
She objected.
“I have a car.”
“You're not driving.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because someone already tried to kill you.”
She looked at him.
“You've known me for three hours.”
“I've known your mother longer.”
She went quiet.
At her apartment door, Lorenzo stopped.
“You shouldn't stay here.”
“This is my home.”
“It may not be safe.”
“I can't keep moving every time someone threatens me.”
Lorenzo looked at her.
“Then move somewhere I can protect.”
Serena shook her head.
“You're not my guardian.”
“No.”
His eyes softened.
“I’m something worse.”
“What?”
He held her gaze.
“I’m starting to care whether you come home alive.”
Her breath caught.
Lorenzo stepped back.
“Lock the door.”
He left.
Serena watched him walk down the hall.
Then she noticed something beneath her door.
An envelope.
She picked it up.
Inside was a photograph.
Her mother.
Lorenzo.
Arthur.
And a baby.
On the back was written:
The child was never supposed to survive.
Serena stared at the photograph.
The baby had a small silver bracelet.
The same bracelet Serena had worn as a child.
And suddenly she knew.
May you like
The secret on the bill wasn't about money.
It was about her.
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