Chapter 6 - The Life Teresa Wanted
Six months later, I walked into the Bellweather Hotel through the front entrance for the first time.
Not the service entrance.
Not the laundry basement.
The front.
Luis nearly dropped his coffee when he saw me.
“Nora?”
I smiled.
“Hi.”
He stared at my navy blazer.
“You look expensive.”
“It was on sale.”
“That is not a sale blazer.”
I laughed.
After the investigation, the Bellweather offered me a management internship while I finished my degree.
Apparently, surviving a mafia attack in their basement made me memorable.
Luis lowered his voice.
“So… the rumors?”
“What rumors?”
“That you’re related to—”
“No.”
He blinked.
“No?”
“I am related to people. That does not mean I discuss them at work.”
“Good answer.”
“Thank you.”
He leaned closer.
“Is he terrifying?”
“Yes.”
“Rich?”
“Luis.”
“Just asking.”
My phone buzzed.
Damian.
DINNER. 8 PM.
I typed back.
ASK LIKE A NORMAL PERSON.
His reply came instantly.
Would you like to have dinner with me at 8 PM?
BETTER.
ARE YOU COMING?
YES.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
GOOD.
Still bossy.
That night, Damian picked me up himself.
No convoy.
No bodyguards inside the car.
Just him.
Dark suit.
Visible tattoos along his hands beneath the cuffs.
He looked healthier.
Less pale.
Still dangerous.
“You’re driving?”
“Yes.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“I have a license.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
He opened the door.
“Get in.”
“Bossy.”
“Nora.”
“Fine.”
We drove to a small Italian restaurant in Brooklyn.
Not one of his clubs.
Not somewhere he owned.
Just a normal place with eight tables and an elderly woman arguing loudly with the chef.
I looked around.
“This is suspiciously ordinary.”
“My mother used to bring me here.”
That softened something in me.
We sat.
Dinner was simple.
Pasta.
Wine.
No crisis.
No blood.
No gunmen.
It felt strange.
Halfway through dessert, Damian put a small box on the table.
I froze.
“No.”
He frowned.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“If that’s jewelry—”
“It isn’t.”
I opened it.
Inside was a new silver chain.
My grandmother’s ring had been cleaned and repaired.
I touched it.
“You fixed it.”
“The clasp was broken.”
I looked at him.
“Thank you.”
“There’s something else.”
He handed me an envelope.
I opened it.
A photograph.
Teresa.
Young.
Smiling.
Standing beside Daniel Hayes.
My grandfather.
Behind them was a small apartment building in Queens.
I turned it over.
Written in Teresa’s handwriting:
For the life we choose ourselves.
My eyes burned.
I hated crying.
Damian noticed.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
He looked worried.
I laughed through it.
“That wasn’t a bad no.”
“Oh.”
“You’re terrible at this.”
“At what?”
“Normal human emotion.”
“I’ve had limited practice.”
I reached across the table and took his hand.
He went still.
“For the record,” I said, “I’m glad you fell through my laundry door.”
“That makes one of us.”
“You didn’t enjoy the linen cart?”
“I will never forgive you for that.”
“You looked comfortable.”
“I was dying.”
“Dramatic.”
He stared at me.
Then smiled.
Actually smiled.
The feared Wolf of Manhattan.
Smiling because a laundry worker had insulted him.
He turned his hand and laced his fingers through mine.
“I need to tell you something.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“I’m leaving.”
My smile disappeared.
“Where?”
“Washington.”
“Why?”
“The federal investigation.”
“You’re testifying?”
“Yes.”
Against Rizzo’s network?”
“And against members of my own family.”
I sat back.
“That’s why you cleaned everything up.”
“I wanted things settled before I left.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
I hated how much that answer hurt.
Damian looked at me.
“Nora.”
“What?”
“I’m not asking you to wait.”
“Good.”
“I’m also not disappearing.”
“Good.”
“I will call.”
“You better.”
“And when this is over—”
I interrupted.
“When this is over, you can ask me to dinner again like a normal person.”
May you like
He smiled faintly.
“Deal.”
