Chapter 2 - THE GHOST OF PRIZZI
Salvatore Gallo did not blink.
His cloudy eyes locked onto mine.
The silver handle of his cane trembled slightly.
Dante shifted his weight beside his father.
His hand hovered near the pocket of his jacket.
"Pietro Rossi," Salvatore murmured.
The name sounded strange in the opulent restaurant.
It sounded like dust and dry earth.
It sounded like a blood feud forgotten by everyone except the grave.
"You are his blood," the old man stated.
It was not a question.
Paul was still watching from the kitchen entrance.
His face was pale under the amber lights.
He had no idea what was happening.
None of them did.
"He passed three years ago," I said.
My voice remained steady.
I hated that it shook inside my chest.
"He died poor, didn't he?" Salvatore asked.
The cruelty in his voice was casual.
"He died with his dignity," I replied.
Dante stepped closer to his father.
"Papa, do you know her?"
"Silence, Dante," Salvatore snapped.
The mafia boss obeyed his father instantly.
That detail sent a cold shiver down my spine.
Dante Gallo feared no one in this city.
Except the frail man sitting across from him.
Salvatore leaned forward on his cane.
"Your grandfather took something from me," he whispered.
The dining room was completely dead silent.
Every eye was fixed on table twelve.
"He took nothing," I whispered back.
"He took a choice," Salvatore said.
His breath smelled of espresso and bitter herbs.
"And now you are carrying trays in a dead man's restaurant."
"I work for my living," I said.
"Work?" Salvatore let out a dry, rattling laugh.
"In Prizzi, a Rossi never worked for anyone."
"Prizzi is a lifetime away," I said.
"Nothing is ever far away," the old man warned.
He reached out with a hand spotted with age.
His fingers gripped my frayed uniform cuff.
His grip was surprisingly strong.
"Sit down, child," he commanded.
"I am working," I said.
"You are finished working for tonight."
Dante looked between his father and me.
Confusion warred with authority in his dark eyes.
"Papa, what is the meaning of this?"
"The meaning," Salvatore said softly, "is that the past has finally found us."
Paul started walking across the floor.
His managerial smile was frozen on his face.
"Is there a problem here, Mr. Gallo?" Paul asked.
He addressed Dante, ignoring the old man.
That was Paul's first fatal mistake.
Dante did not even look at the manager.
"Get away from this table," Dante ordered coldly.
Paul froze mid-step.
"Sir?"
"You heard him," one of the bodyguards growled.
The bodyguard stepped into Paul's path.
Paul swallowed hard and backed away.
I stood there with the bottle of Pinot Noir.
The glass was still empty.
"Pour the wine," Salvatore commanded me.
I uncorked the bottle.
My hands did not tremble.
I poured a dark, heavy stream into the crystal glass.
Salvatore did not drink.
He just watched the red liquid settle.
"Pietro taught you well," he muttered.
"He taught me how to survive," I said.
"Survival is not enough anymore," the old man said.
He looked up at his son.
"Dante, find her file."
"Papa—"
"Find her file," Salvatore repeated, his voice rising.
"Check what she owes. Pay it."
My head snapped up.
"I don't need your charity."
"It is not charity," Salvatore said.
"It is a debt. Your grandfather paid in blood."
"What kind of blood?" I demanded.
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Salvatore smiled.
It was a terrifying sight.
"The kind that washes away sins."
He stood up with sudden, shocking speed.
Dante moved instantly to support his elbow.
Salvatore shook his son off.
"I can walk," the old man grunted.
He looked at me one last time.
"Keep your eyes open, little sparrow."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because the hawk is already circling."
They turned and walked toward the private exit.
The bodyguards formed a tight human wall around them.
The heavy oak door swung shut.
The pianist slowly lowered his hands to the keys.
The music started again.
It sounded hollow.
Paul rushed over to me.
"What did you say to them?" he hissed.
"Nothing," I whispered.
"You just insulted the most powerful family in the state."
"They insulted me first."
"I don't care!" Paul grabbed my shoulder.
"You're fired. Get out."
I looked at him calmly.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my apron.
I dropped it on the floor.
"You can't fire me," I said.
"Oh, really? Watch me!"
"I quit," I corrected him.
I turned my back on the manager.
I walked toward the employee exit without looking back.
Behind me, Paul was shouting my name.
May you like
I didn't care.
The game had already begun.
