Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Became a Target
Porcelain shattered against mahogany, and every conversation in Laura died at once.
Men wearing watches worth more than Harper Hayes made in five years stopped eating.
A woman near the bar lowered her champagne glass.
Four broad-shouldered men in dark suits rose almost simultaneously.
And in the private south alcove, Roman Moretti had one hand twisted into Greg Sullivan’s jacket while the terrified waiter stared into the face of the most dangerous man in New York.
“I have killed men for looking at her the wrong way,” Roman said quietly. “What do you think I’m going to do to you for making her a joke?”
Greg’s face went white.
Three feet away, Roman’s mother was crying.
That was what made Harper move.
Not Greg.
Not Roman.
Not the bodyguards.
Beatrice Moretti.
The elegant silver-haired woman sat frozen at the table, one trembling hand covering her mouth. She could not hear Roman’s threat, but she did not need to.
She could read her son’s body.
She knew exactly what was happening.
Harper knew that look.
She had seen it on her younger brother Leo’s face years ago.
So she put down the silver water pitcher.
“Walk away, waitress,” Roman ordered.
Harper ignored him.
One of his men reached inside his jacket.
Roman lifted two fingers.
The man stopped.
Harper stepped between Roman and Greg, turned her back on a man everyone else in the restaurant feared, and faced Beatrice.
Then she raised her hands.
Hello.
Beatrice froze.
Harper swallowed against the memory suddenly burning in her throat.
My name is Harper.
H-A-R-P-E-R.
Beatrice’s eyes widened.
Behind Harper, Roman released Greg.
Harper kept signing.
I’m sorry about him.
She pointed toward Greg.
Then she signed:
Idiot.
For one impossible second, nothing happened.
Then Beatrice laughed.
It came out unevenly, half laughter and half sob, but it transformed her entire face.
Harper smiled.
Beatrice’s hands immediately answered.
You sign beautifully.
Rusty, Harper replied.
How rusty?
Harper thought about it.
Terrible.
Beatrice smiled.
Liar.
Harper laughed softly.
The room around them seemed to disappear.
She had not had a real conversation in American Sign Language in years.
Not since Leo.
Her brother had lost most of his hearing after bacterial meningitis when he was six. Harper had been nine. Their parents had learned enough ASL to manage, but Harper had thrown herself into it with the absolute devotion of a child who refused to let her little brother live behind glass.
They had signed beneath dinner tables.
Across crowded rooms.
Through bedroom windows.
They had invented jokes no one else understood.
Then Leo died at seventeen from complications related to a heart condition nobody had known was serious enough to kill him.
After the funeral, Harper stopped signing.
There was nobody left to speak to.
Until tonight.
Beatrice touched Harper’s wrist.
Are you working?
Harper nodded.
Then I should order before your boss fires you.
Harper glanced toward Paul.
The manager looked as though he might faint.
She turned back.
What would you like?
Beatrice pointed at the menu.
The duck.
Harper made an exaggerated quacking motion.
Beatrice burst out laughing again.
This time Roman saw it.
Harper felt his attention before she turned.
He had released Greg completely.
The rage was still there, but something else had replaced its immediate violence.
Confusion.
Roman Moretti looked at Harper as though she had just performed a magic trick.
“What did she say?” he asked.
Harper lowered her hands.
“She wants the duck.”
Roman looked at his mother.
“And?”
Harper hesitated.
“And she thinks your waiter is an idiot.”
Beatrice caught enough from Harper’s expression to understand they were discussing Greg.
She signed rapidly.
Harper’s smile faded.
“What?”
Roman’s voice sharpened.
Harper translated.
“She says she wants you to sit down.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
Beatrice continued.
“She says Greg was disrespectful, but humiliating him won’t undo her humiliation.”
Roman stared at his mother.
Harper translated the rest.
“She says she came here to have dinner with her son, not watch him terrify somebody.”
A few people nearby looked away.
Roman slowly buttoned his jacket.
Then he returned to his chair.
Greg nearly collapsed.
“Get out,” Roman told him.
Greg nodded frantically.
“Yes, sir.”
“Not because I’m going to hurt you. Because my mother doesn’t want to look at you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Greg hurried away.
Paul followed him.
Harper remained beside the table.
She suddenly realized what she had done.
She had ignored a direct order from Roman Moretti.
Twice.
Her survival instinct, apparently delayed by approximately five minutes, returned all at once.
“I should get back to work.”
Beatrice caught her hand.
Stay.
Harper blinked.
“I—”
Beatrice pointed at the empty chair.
Harper shook her head.
I can’t.
Why?
Because I work here.
Beatrice gave her a look so unimpressed that Harper almost smiled.
Then Beatrice pointed toward Roman.
He owns buildings.
Harper stared.
Beatrice shrugged.
He can solve it.
Harper covered her mouth to hide a laugh.
Roman watched them.
“What did she say?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed.
“My mother just insulted me, didn’t she?”
Beatrice smiled innocently.
Harper bit the inside of her cheek.
“I’m not getting involved.”
“You already stepped between me and a man I was threatening.”
“That was temporary insanity.”
The corner of Roman’s mouth moved.
Barely.
But Harper saw it.
Then Paul appeared.
“Mr. Moretti, I want to personally apologize for what happened.”
Roman’s expression went cold again.
“Apologize to my mother.”
Paul turned toward Beatrice and immediately made the same mistake Greg had made.
He began speaking while looking down.
Harper sighed.
“Face her.”
Paul stopped.
“What?”
“When you speak, face her. She reads lips.”
“Oh.”
He repositioned himself.
“I am deeply sorry, Mrs. Moretti.”
Beatrice watched him carefully.
Harper signed along.
Paul continued.
“Greg’s behavior was unacceptable. There will be consequences.”
Beatrice answered.
Harper translated.
“She appreciates the apology.”
Paul exhaled.
“Thank you.”
Beatrice signed something else.
Harper hesitated.
Roman noticed.
“What?”
“She says firing him won’t teach him anything.”
Paul blinked.
Beatrice continued.
“She wants him trained.”
“In what?”
“Deaf awareness. Basic communication. How not to treat disabled customers like children.”
Roman looked at his mother for several seconds.
Then he nodded.
“Done.”
Paul nodded quickly.
“Absolutely.”
Beatrice smiled.
The crisis appeared over.
Harper turned toward the service station.
“Harper.”
Roman’s voice stopped her.
She looked back.
He was watching her hands.
“How do you know sign language?”
The question hit somewhere unexpectedly tender.
“My brother was deaf.”
“Was?”
Harper looked down.
“He died.”
Roman’s expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Beatrice had understood.
She reached for Harper’s hand.
Her fingers closed around it.
What was his name?
Leo.
Beatrice signed the name back.
Leo.
Harper’s throat tightened.
For years, people had avoided saying his name because they thought it would hurt her.
They never understood that silence hurt more.
Beatrice touched her heart.
Then yours.
Harper understood.
Leo lives here.
Her eyes filled.
She nodded.
Roman watched the entire exchange.
Something in his expression had become unreadable.
Harper pulled herself together.
“I really do have to work.”
This time Beatrice let her go.
Harper escaped into the kitchen.
The moment the swinging doors closed behind her, she leaned against the wall.
“What the hell did you just do?”
Greg stood ten feet away.
His face was flushed with humiliation.
Harper straightened.
“Saved you from making things worse.”
“You made me look stupid.”
“You made yourself look stupid.”
His eyes hardened.
“You think because Moretti’s mother likes you, you’re suddenly important?”
“I don’t think I’m important.”
“You’re a bus girl.”
“Back waiter.”
“Same difference.”
Harper stepped around him.
Greg caught her arm.
“Don’t get comfortable.”
Harper looked at his hand.
“Let go.”
He did.
But the hatred remained in his eyes.
“You’ll be gone before the weekend.”
Harper returned to work.
She told herself she didn’t care.
She needed the job, though.
Rent was due in eleven days.
Her mother’s assisted-living payment was already late.
And Harper had exactly $612 in her checking account.
Getting fired would not be inconvenient.
It would be catastrophic.
For the next hour, she avoided the south alcove.
Then Paul found her near the pastry station.
“Moretti wants you.”
Harper’s stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“If I knew what Roman Moretti wanted, I’d probably have a much nicer apartment.”
She wiped her hands.
“Am I fired?”
“Not by me.”
That was not reassuring.
Harper returned to the dining room.
Dinner was finished.
Roman stood beside his mother while an attendant helped Beatrice into her coat.
Beatrice saw Harper and immediately smiled.
She signed.
Thank you for tonight.
Harper answered.
Thank you for letting me talk to you.
Beatrice shook her head.
No.
Thank you for seeing me.
Those four words nearly broke Harper.
She stepped forward and hugged the older woman.
Roman’s bodyguards stiffened.
Roman did not.
Beatrice held Harper tightly.
When they separated, she kissed Harper’s cheek.
Then she walked toward the exit with one of Roman’s men.
Harper turned.
Roman remained.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then he placed a business card on the table.
Black.
No logo.
Just a name and number.
ROMAN MORETTI.
Harper stared at it.
“What’s that?”
“My number.”
“I figured that part out.”
His gaze sharpened with what might have been amusement.
“My mother has refused interpreters for three years.”
Harper looked toward the doors.
“Why?”
“She hates strangers.”
“Smart woman.”
“She likes you.”
“That’s different.”
“Apparently.”
Roman stepped closer.
Harper had noticed earlier that he was tall.
She had not fully appreciated how tall until there was no table between them.
“Come work for her.”
Harper stared at him.
“I’m a waitress.”
“You sign.”
“A lot of people sign.”
“She doesn’t like a lot of people.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
One of Roman’s bodyguards coughed suspiciously.
Roman glanced at him.
The man instantly became fascinated with the ceiling.
Roman looked back at Harper.
“I’ll triple whatever they pay you here.”
Harper’s heart skipped.
Triple.
That would change everything.
Her mother’s bills.
Her debt.
Maybe school.
Maybe the life Harper had stopped imagining.
But she had learned young that money offered by powerful men usually came attached to invisible strings.
“No.”
Roman seemed genuinely surprised.
“No?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know you.”
“You know who I am.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
For the first time that evening, Roman Moretti smiled.
It was small.
Dangerous.
And unexpectedly beautiful.
“Keep the card.”
Harper left it on the table.
“I won’t need it.”
Roman walked away.
Harper watched him disappear through the brass doors.
Then she noticed Beatrice’s black leather handbag beneath the chair.
“Oh, no.”
Harper grabbed it and ran.
She pushed through the front doors.
“Mr. Moretti!”
Roman turned beside a black SUV.
Harper hurried toward him with the bag.
“Your mother forgot—”
A sharp crack split the night.
Roman moved before Harper understood the sound.
His arm slammed around her waist.
He pulled her down behind the SUV.
Glass exploded above them.
People screamed.
Roman covered Harper with his body.
His men drew weapons and scattered.
Harper’s heart hammered against her ribs.
“What was that?”
Roman looked toward the shattered restaurant window.
His expression was no longer angry.
It was lethal.
“That,” he said, “was meant for me.”
Then one of his men shouted from the sidewalk.
“Boss!”
Roman looked down.
May you like
A tiny red dot was moving across Harper’s white shirt.
And stopped directly over her heart.
