Chapter 2 - The Man Everyone Misunderstood
Salvatore returned the following Thursday.
This time, he requested me by name.
Brett nearly dropped the reservation book.
“He asked for you?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“How?”
I looked at him calmly.
“He communicated.”
Carla turned away to hide her laughter.
Brett did not find it funny.
From then on, Salvatore requested my table every Thursday.
The rumors grew immediately.
Some staff members claimed I was feeding him information.
Others said I had become his secret girlfriend.
The truth was much less dramatic.
Most nights, we discussed food.
Sometimes business.
Occasionally books.
Salvatore preferred written English for complicated topics, but ASL was the language in which he seemed most fully himself.
In speech, other people controlled the pace.
In sign, he did.
He was quick, expressive, and unexpectedly funny.
He noticed everything.
A new waiter hiding a limp.
A customer removing cash from another guest’s coat.
A chef changing ingredients to cover spoiled food.
His silence made people careless around him.
They spoke as if he were furniture.
That was how Salvatore had survived in rooms filled with enemies.
One Thursday, after I served his meal, he noticed a faded burn mark on my wrist.
What happened? he signed.
Kitchen accident.
He studied me.
Recently?
Years ago.
He did not believe me.
The truth was that Brett had knocked a tray from my hands during my second month at Bellamy’s. Hot coffee had spilled across my wrist. He told the owner I was clumsy.
I had accepted the blame because I could not afford to lose the job.
Salvatore tapped the table once.
You protect people who do not protect you.
I crossed my arms.
You judge people quickly.
I investigate people quickly.
That answer reminded me who he was.
No matter how easily we communicated, Salvatore Marquetti was not harmless.
His organization inspired fear for a reason.
I knew better than to become impressed by expensive suits and controlled anger.
You frighten people, I signed.
Sometimes fear prevents worse things.
Sometimes fear becomes the worse thing.
For several seconds, he watched me.
Most people agree with me.
Most people want something from you.
And you do not?
I want my customers to leave a reasonable tip.
He laughed silently, his shoulders moving.
It was the first time I realized how young he looked when he was not guarding himself.
Our conversations did not remain private for long.
Brett began appearing near room seven whenever I served Salvatore.
He asked what we discussed.
I refused to tell him.
He checked Salvatore’s receipts.
He searched the private room after Salvatore left.
One night, I caught him photographing a document Salvatore had accidentally left beneath a menu.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
Brett slipped his phone into his pocket.
“Checking for lost property.”
“You were taking pictures.”
“You misunderstand everything, Tessa.”
I reached for the document, but he stepped between me and the table.
His smile vanished.
“You think knowing a few hand signals makes you important?”
“It makes me capable of telling Salvatore what you did.”
For the first time, Brett looked afraid.
Then he laughed.
“Go ahead. Tell the mafia boss his favorite waitress has been digging through his private papers.”
“You were holding the document.”
“And who will he believe?”
The answer should have been obvious.
Yet doubt entered my mind.
Salvatore respected me, but respect was not trust.
Brett had worked at Bellamy’s for nine years. He knew the owners, suppliers, and security staff. If he lied convincingly, he could make me appear guilty.
I took the document and returned it to Salvatore the following Thursday.
I also told him exactly where I had found it.
He listened without interruption.
Then he asked whether Brett had photographed it.
I think so.
Salvatore’s expression hardened.
The document contained shipping schedules for one of his legal warehouse companies. By themselves, the schedules were harmless.
In the wrong hands, they revealed when valuable medical equipment would arrive at an unsecured loading site.
I expected Salvatore to confront Brett.
He did not.
Instead, he asked me to behave normally.
Why?
Because a thief who believes he succeeded will show you what he intends to steal next.
I did not like being part of a trap.
Salvatore must have seen the concern in my face.
You can walk away, he signed. I will not punish you.
May you like
I believed him.
That was why I stayed.
