Chapter 2 - Five Words Through Broken Glass
"Get my mother in the car."
Roman's voice was so calm that Harper almost forgot a restaurant window had just exploded behind them.
Almost.
Two security men immediately surrounded Beatrice.
She resisted.
Her eyes searched for Roman.
Then Harper.
Beatrice signed sharply.
What happened?
Harper hesitated.
Roman noticed.
"Tell her."
Harper looked at him.
"Are you sure?"
"She's deaf, Harper. She's not fragile."
The sentence surprised her.
Maybe he had been listening after all.
Harper signed that something had broken the window and that Roman's security team was checking what happened.
Beatrice's eyes narrowed.
And the paper?
Roman couldn't understand her hands, but he understood where she was looking.
He folded the threatening note.
"Not here."
Beatrice signed again.
Harper translated reluctantly.
"She says if the message concerns her, she has the right to know."
Roman closed his eyes for one second.
"Of course she does."
He unfolded the note and showed her.
Beatrice read the five words.
Her face lost its color.
Harper saw it immediately.
Roman did too.
"You know what this means."
Beatrice shook her head too quickly.
Roman crouched beside her.
"Mom."
She wouldn't look at him.
He reached toward her, then stopped before touching her.
That restraint told Harper more about their relationship than any explanation could.
Beatrice finally raised her hands.
Home.
Harper translated.
Roman nodded.
"Take her."
Beatrice caught Harper's hand before security could move her.
Come.
Harper shook her head.
"I can't."
Beatrice tightened her grip.
Roman looked from his mother to Harper.
"She wants you with her."
"I have a shift."
Behind them, Paul Benson stared at the shattered window.
Roman glanced at him.
"Does she?"
Paul shook his head immediately.
"No. Absolutely not."
Harper gave him a look.
Paul shrugged helplessly.
"Go."
"I don't even know where I'm going."
"With my mother," Roman said.
"That's not an address."
Despite everything, Roman almost smiled.
Ten minutes later, Harper found herself sitting beside Beatrice in the back of a black SUV while Roman rode in front.
The city slid past tinted windows.
Nobody spoke.
For Harper, silence had never been empty.
Leo had taught her that.
Silence could contain jokes, arguments, affection, impatience, entire conversations.
Beatrice tapped Harper's hand.
You are scared.
A little.
Of the message?
Harper glanced toward Roman.
Mostly your son.
Beatrice laughed silently.
Roman looked back.
"What did she say?"
"Nothing."
"You're terrible at lying."
Beatrice signed.
He was born suspicious.
Harper covered a smile.
Roman sighed.
"She's insulting me again."
"Constantly."
For a few seconds, the tension eased.
Then the SUV turned through tall iron gates.
Harper stared.
The Moretti residence wasn't merely a house.
It was a limestone mansion set behind walls, trees, cameras and enough security to protect a head of state.
Inside, however, Harper noticed something unexpected.
Family photographs.
Dozens of them.
Roman as a boy.
Beatrice younger, laughing beside a dark-haired man.
Roman at graduation.
Roman holding his mother's hand at what appeared to be a funeral.
This wasn't the cold fortress Harper had expected.
It was a home that had slowly learned to be afraid.
Roman's security chief approached.
"Perimeter's clear."
"Double coverage tonight."
"Already done."
"And the restaurant?"
"Police have the object. No fingerprints so far."
Harper looked at Roman.
"How often does this happen?"
"It doesn't."
"That didn't sound convincing."
"It wasn't supposed to."
Beatrice touched Harper's arm and motioned upstairs.
Roman stepped between them.
"Mom, wait."
Beatrice turned.
Roman held up the note.
"Who were you thinking about when you read this?"
Nothing.
"Someone scared you."
Beatrice's hands remained at her sides.
Roman's voice softened.
"Please."
That word changed her.
Beatrice sat.
Then signed to Harper.
Twenty-eight years ago, my husband received letters.
Roman went still.
Harper translated.
"Your father?"
Roman's expression sharpened.
"My father died twenty-eight years ago."
Beatrice nodded.
Harper continued translating.
Before he died, someone sent warnings.
Roman stared at his mother.
"You never told me."
Beatrice signed.
You were ten.
"I'm thirty-eight now."
And I wanted those years buried.
Roman looked away.
Harper felt suddenly intrusive.
"I should leave."
"No," Roman said.
Beatrice signed the same thing.
Roman looked at Harper.
"I need you to translate."
Harper sat again.
Beatrice's hands moved slowly.
Roman's father, Anthony Moretti, had built a successful commercial real-estate company. He had enemies, but not the kind tabloids imagined. Business disputes. Lawsuits. Partners who believed Anthony had cheated them. Competitors who wanted contracts he controlled.
Weeks before his death in a highway accident, anonymous letters had begun arriving.
The messages were short.
Personal.
And always about Beatrice.
Roman's face hardened.
"What did they say?"
Beatrice hesitated.
Then signed.
That his weakness had a name.
Roman looked at his mother.
"You."
She nodded.
Harper's stomach tightened.
"Did Dad tell police?"
Yes.
"And?"
Nothing was proven.
Roman paced toward the fireplace.
"My father's crash was ruled accidental."
Beatrice nodded.
"But you don't believe that."
Beatrice's hands stopped.
That was answer enough.
Roman turned.
"Why tell me now?"
Beatrice pointed toward the note.
Because the wording is the same.
Roman unfolded it again.
YOU CAN'T PROTECT HER FOREVER.
His face changed.
"Same how?"
Beatrice stood and walked toward an antique cabinet.
From behind a stack of old photograph albums, she removed a small locked wooden box.
Roman stared.
"I've never seen that."
Beatrice opened it.
Inside were letters.
Old envelopes.
Newspaper clippings.
And a photograph.
Roman picked it up.
Three men stood beside his father outside a construction site.
Anthony Moretti was in the center.
Roman recognized the man on his right immediately.
"Victor Dane."
Harper looked at him.
"Who's Victor Dane?"
"My father's business partner."
"Was?"
Roman's eyes remained on the photograph.
"He disappeared after my father died."
Beatrice shook her head.
Then she signed.
Harper watched.
Her stomach dropped.
"What?" Roman demanded.
Harper didn't answer immediately.
"Harper."
"She says Victor didn't disappear."
Roman looked at his mother.
"Where is he?"
Beatrice's hands moved once more.
Harper translated.
"She says he's been watching your family for years."
Roman went completely still.
Then Beatrice reached deeper into the box.
She removed another photograph.
This one wasn't twenty-eight years old.
It had been taken recently.
Harper knew because she recognized the restaurant entrance.
And standing beside it—
May you like
was herself.
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