Chapter 2 - The Language He Thought She Couldn’t Understand
Henry did not speak to Maya for nearly a full minute.
For Henry Wallace, that was probably a personal record.
He stood near the server station with both hands pressed against his forehead, staring toward Booth Nine as though waiting for gunfire.
Finally, he whispered, “Tell me you didn’t insult Dominic Russo.”
Maya adjusted the stack of plates beside her.
“I corrected a misunderstanding.”
“You told him to buy class.”
“You heard that?”
“Half the restaurant heard that.”
“I was speaking Neapolitan.”
“I don’t care if you were speaking ancient Egyptian. I could understand your face.”
Maya reached for the wine key.
Henry blocked her.
“You need to leave.”
“You told me five minutes ago I’d be fired if I refused the table.”
“That was before you challenged one of the most dangerous men in the city to a verbal duel.”
“I didn’t challenge him.”
“Maya.”
“He insulted me.”
Henry looked genuinely bewildered.
“So?”
The word hit her harder than she expected.
So?
As though insults were simply another part of her uniform.
Another duty.
Serve the food.
Pour the wine.
Accept humiliation.
“Move,” Maya said.
Henry lowered his voice.
“You have no idea who that man is.”
“I know exactly who he thinks he is.”
“Maya, people disappear around men like Russo.”
“Then firing me seems unnecessary.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Their eyes met.
For once, Henry looked away first.
From the kitchen, the sommelier emerged carrying two dark bottles as though transporting royal jewels.
“1982 Château Margaux,” he announced.
Henry practically snatched them.
“I’ll take it.”
Maya held out her hand.
“It’s my table.”
Henry stared.
“You’re insane.”
“Possibly.”
He leaned closer.
“If you provoke him again—”
“I’m not planning to provoke anybody.”
“That did not look accidental.”
Maya took the bottles.
“Neither was what he said.”
She returned to Booth Nine.
This time, nobody spoke when she approached.
Dominic watched every movement.
Maya uncorked the first bottle.
Presented it.
Decanted it.
Her hands remained steady.
Years in fine dining had taught her how to perform precision even when her stomach was tied in knots.
The scarred man spoke first.
“So you understand Neapolitan.”
Maya glanced at him.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because languages are generally designed to be understood.”
One of the men almost smiled.
Dominic’s gaze sharpened.
“Where did you learn it?”
Maya poured the wine.
“Naples.”
“Where in Naples?”
“Does it matter?”
“To me.”
She met his eyes.
“Spaccanapoli.”
Something changed around the table.
Dominic stopped reaching for his glass.
The scarred man looked at him.
Maya noticed.
“What?”
Dominic leaned forward.
“How long?”
“Five years.”
“What years?”
Maya frowned.
“Why are you interviewing me?”
“I asked a question.”
“And I’m serving dinner.”
The scarred man’s eyebrows rose.
No one spoke to Dominic Russo that way.
Apparently Maya had decided that once one line had been crossed, the rest were merely decoration.
Dominic should have been offended.
Instead, there was that look again.
Curiosity.
“Your accent,” he said.
“It’s old.”
“My accent?”
“You learned from locals. Not school.”
“I told you that.”
“Who taught you?”
Maya placed his glass down.
“Everybody.”
“Family?”
She hesitated.
“My mother.”
“And your father?”
The question tightened something deep inside her.
Maya stepped back.
“Would anyone like to hear tonight’s specials?”
The abrupt change was unmistakable.
Dominic noticed.
His eyes narrowed.
Then, unexpectedly, he allowed it.
“Go ahead.”
She described the menu.
Truffle risotto.
Dry-aged ribeye.
Dover sole.
Lobster ravioli.
By the end, the tension had softened enough that Maya almost convinced herself the strange conversation was finished.
It was not.
When she returned to the kitchen, the staff stared at her.
Nobody tried to hide it.
A busboy named Luis whispered, “Legend.”
Maya pointed at him.
“Do not encourage me.”
He grinned.
“I heard you told him his wallet was small.”
“I did not say his wallet was small.”
“That’s what the bartender said.”
“I said it wasn’t thick enough.”
Luis laughed.
“Much better.”
Henry appeared.
“Stop celebrating. All of you.”
The staff scattered.
Henry pulled Maya aside.
“He requested that you remain his server.”
“That’s convenient.”
“He also canceled his reservation tomorrow.”
Maya paused.
“Why?”
“He moved it to tonight.”
“He’s already here.”
“He asked us to keep the kitchen open.”
“For how long?”
Henry looked sick.
“Until he leaves.”
Maya checked the clock.
Ten-fifteen.
Wonderful.
Sophie had texted her twice.
The first message read:
Don’t forget my prescription tomorrow. Love you.
The second:
And eat something, dictator. Coffee isn’t food.
Maya smiled despite herself.
She answered:
Working late. Go to sleep. I’m fine.
She almost added that she might be fired.
She deleted it.
Sophie worried too easily.
Back at Booth Nine, Dominic and his men spoke mostly about shipping contracts.
Maya tried not to listen.
She failed.
The language shifted between English and Italian.
This time nobody mocked her.
Dominic seemed almost intentionally careful.
When the main courses arrived, Maya placed his plate before him.
“Thank you,” he said.
She almost looked around to make sure he was speaking to her.
“You’re welcome.”
Twenty minutes passed.
The men ate.
Then Dominic asked, “Why are you working here?”
Maya was pouring wine.
“Because they give me money twice a month.”
“You dislike it.”
“Does anybody dream of carrying bread to strangers?”
The scarred man chuckled.
Dominic ignored him.
“You’re educated.”
Maya froze for a fraction of a second.
“What makes you think that?”
“The way you speak.”
“Waitresses can speak.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Then choose better words.”
The scarred man murmured, “Boss, she does this professionally.”
Dominic gave him a look.
He became silent.
Maya almost smiled.
Dominic returned his attention to her.
“What did you study?”
She should have refused.
Instead, perhaps because the night was already strange, she answered.
“International relations.”
“College?”
“Two years.”
“Why stop?”
Maya looked toward the dining room.
“Life.”
He waited.
She said nothing more.
“Money?”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“You answer very few.”
“That should tell you something.”
Dominic leaned back.
“It tells me you’re hiding something.”
Maya felt irritation rise.
“Everyone is hiding something, Mr. Russo.”
That finally silenced him.
For several seconds.
Then Dominic smiled faintly.
“Fair.”
At eleven-thirty, the restaurant had mostly emptied.
Rain continued against the windows.
Booth Nine remained.
Maya finished her assigned side work while keeping an eye on them.
She wanted to go home.
She wanted hot water, painkillers, and six hours of sleep.
At midnight, Dominic’s men finally stood.
Maya approached with the check inside a black leather folder.
Dominic did not open it.
“Put it on my account.”
“Henry already arranged that.”
“Good.”
Maya hesitated.
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes.”
Of course there was.
Dominic looked at his men.
“Outside.”
The scarred man frowned.
“Dom—”
“Outside.”
They obeyed.
Maya watched them leave the booth.
The second bodyguard remained within sight across the room.
Dominic gestured toward the empty seat opposite him.
“Sit.”
Maya laughed once.
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You’ve been standing nine hours.”
“Exactly. I’m not spending minute five hundred forty-one being ordered into a chair.”
A strange expression crossed his face.
Amusement, maybe.
“Please sit.”
That was different.
Maya remained standing anyway.
“What do you want?”
Dominic’s expression became serious.
“Your surname.”
“No.”
“Maya.”
“You know my first name. That’s sufficient for dinner service.”
“Your mother’s name.”
Every muscle in Maya’s body stiffened.
“What?”
“Your mother. What was her name?”
Maya stared.
“Why?”
“Because five years in Spaccanapoli isn’t random.”
“Thousands of people live there.”
“I know.”
“My mother dated an Italian man. We moved there. It ended badly. We came home.”
“What man?”
Maya’s patience vanished.
“That is absolutely none of your business.”
She turned.
Dominic’s next words stopped her.
“Was his name Luca?”
Maya’s heart seemed to misfire.
She turned back slowly.
Dominic had lost every trace of amusement.
“Luca Moretti?”
Maya could not speak for a moment.
She had not heard that name aloud in years.
“How do you know that?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“So it was.”
Maya stepped closer.
“How do you know him?”
Dominic stood.
He was taller than she realized.
The movement made the remaining bodyguard straighten across the room.
Maya did not step back.
Dominic lowered his voice.
“Luca Moretti worked for my father.”
A cold sensation moved through Maya.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My mother said he worked in import logistics.”
Dominic gave her a look that contained no humor.
“He did.”
Maya understood.
Import logistics.
A convenient phrase.
A clean phrase.
The kind used when adults did not want children asking questions.
Dominic continued.
“He disappeared twelve years ago.”
Maya swallowed.
“That was around the time we left Naples.”
“Exactly.”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything yet.”
“Then stop talking like you know my life.”
Dominic stared at her.
“When did your mother die?”
Maya’s breath caught.
“I never said she was dead.”
“No.”
He looked toward her hands.
“But you said ‘was’ when you spoke about her.”
Maya hated that he had noticed.
“Three years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
She almost snapped at him.
But his voice sounded sincere.
That made it worse somehow.
Maya crossed her arms.
“What does Luca have to do with you?”
Dominic did not answer immediately.
Outside, lightning flashed behind the skyline.
Then he said something Maya had not expected.
“Possibly everything.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Explain.”
“Not here.”
She laughed without humor.
“You humiliate me in a language you assume I don’t understand, interrogate me about my dead mother, mention a man I haven’t thought about since childhood, and now you’re going to become mysterious?”
Dominic’s eyes hardened.
“This is not a game.”
“Then stop playing one.”
He reached inside his jacket.
Maya’s body tensed.
Dominic slowly withdrew a black leather wallet.
From behind one card slot, he removed an old photograph.
He placed it on the table.
Maya looked down.
The picture had faded around the edges.
Two young men stood outside a café somewhere in Naples.
One was unmistakably a younger Dominic.
The other—
Maya stopped breathing.
Luca.
She remembered him.
Dark curls.
Easy smile.
A silver chain.
The man who used to bring pastries home.
The man who had taught her to ride a bicycle through a narrow courtyard.
The man who vanished one night without saying goodbye.
Maya reached toward the photograph.
Then stopped before touching it.
“You knew him.”
Dominic’s voice was quiet.
“Yes.”
Maya looked at him.
“What happened to him?”
Dominic’s expression changed.
Something guarded passed through his eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“You said he disappeared.”
“He did.”
“Why?”
“I was hoping your mother told you.”
“She told me nothing.”
Dominic studied her.
“Are you sure?”
Maya’s anger returned.
“I was twelve.”
“Children remember things adults underestimate.”
The words unsettled her.
Fragments flashed through her memory.
Her mother packing suitcases at midnight.
A broken kitchen glass.
A man shouting downstairs.
Luca pressing something into her mother’s hand.
Her mother crying inside a taxi.
Maya pushed the memories away.
“I need to go home.”
Dominic picked up the photograph.
“Maya.”
She turned.
“If you remember anything,” he said, “anything at all about the night you left Naples, I need you to tell me.”
“Why?”
Dominic looked at the photograph.
“Because Luca disappeared the same night my father almost died.”
Maya stared at him.
“And for twelve years, my family believed Luca betrayed us.”
A chill moved across her skin.
Dominic lifted his eyes.
“But if your mother fled with you that same night…”
He paused.
“…then maybe we were wrong.”
Maya backed away.
She did not want this.
She wanted her sister.
Her apartment.
Her predictable problems.
Bills she could understand.
She grabbed her coat from the staff room and left the restaurant ten minutes later.
Outside, the rain had softened.
She walked quickly toward the subway.
Halfway down the block, headlights appeared behind her.
A black sedan slowed.
Maya’s heart jumped.
The vehicle stopped beside the curb.
The rear window lowered.
Dominic sat inside.
“I’m not getting in.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“Good.”
He held something through the open window.
The old photograph.
“No.”
“Keep it tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because you looked at Luca like you remembered more than you said.”
Maya stared at the photograph.
Then reluctantly took it.
Dominic’s eyes remained on hers.
“Look carefully.”
The window rose.
The sedan disappeared into traffic.
Maya stood beneath the rain.
Only when she reached home did she understand what Dominic meant.
Because on the back of the photograph, in handwriting she recognized instantly as her mother’s, were seven words:
If anything happens, Maya knows where it is.
May you like
And Maya had absolutely no idea what that meant.
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