Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Wood-Paneled Office
The heavy oak door of the back office closed with a muffled click, shutting out the muted symphony of clinking glasses and piano jazz from the main dining room. The air in here smelled of old leather, expensive bourbon, and dust motes dancing in the amber glow of a single desk lamp.
Marco leaned against the mahogany bookshelves, his arms crossed over his chest, watching me like a hawk eyeing a wounded rabbit. Don Salvatore sat behind the desk, lowering himself into a high-backed leather chair with a slow, deliberate wince of his joints. The silver-handled cane was propped neatly against the edge of the desk, catching the lamplight.
"Sit, Tessa," Don Salvatore said, gesturing to the empty leather armchair opposite him.
I didn't move immediately. My boots felt glued to the patterned Persian rug. "I need to get back to my station. My manager—"
"Your manager answers to me, Tessa. Sit down," Marco interjected, his tone sharp, carrying a thinly veiled threat.
I took the seat, keeping my spine straight and my hands folded neatly in my lap. I refused to let them see how badly my knees were shaking.
Don Salvatore opened a small leather ledger pulled from the desk drawer. He turned the heavy pages slowly until his finger stopped at a faded black-and-white photograph tucked into the corner. He slid it across the polished wood toward me.
I leaned forward, my breath catching in my throat. The woman in the photograph wore a simple cotton dress, her blonde hair pulled back in a familiar ponytail, standing in front of a stone cottage that looked nothing like the American Midwest. But it was her cheekbones, the slight upturn of her nose, and the fierce, unyielding set of her jaw that made me feel like I was looking into a mirror.
"Rosa," Don Salvatore murmured, his thumb grazing the edge of the photograph. "She spoke those exact words the night the border guards closed the valley. *Divi Viniti.* We are arrived. A private dialect spoken by three families in a pocket of the mountains that the world forgot."
"My mother told me stories," I said quietly, my voice barely audible in the quiet room. "She said my great-grandmother came across the ocean with nothing but a phrase and a prayer. She never talked about who left her behind."
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Marco uncrossed his arms, stepping closer to the desk. "Salvatore, this is a coincidence. People pick up accents, phrases, old slang. It's a liability. We don't know who she is or who sent her here."
"She was sent by blood, Marco," Don Salvatore said sharply, his eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce vitality. He looked back at me, the hard edges of his face softening into something searching and vulnerable. "Rosa Paolini broke my heart sixty years ago, Tessa. And now her ghost pours my water."
