Maria laughed from inside the car.
“Sophie, get in before my son begins thinking he is charming.”
Anthony looked offended.
“I don’t think I’m charming.”
“That is the first sensible thing you’ve said tonight.”
I climbed into the back seat beside her.
Anthony sat across from us.
As the car pulled away from Bellarosa, I watched the restaurant disappear behind the curtain of rain.
My life had felt difficult that morning, but at least I had understood it.
Now I was sitting in a car with Anthony Russo, holding the hand of his mother while a brass key rested in his closed fist.
Maria leaned back against the seat.
“You’re staring at it,” she said.
Anthony looked down.
“I’m thinking.”
“You always think too much when you are afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then you are thinking for no reason.”
He looked toward the window.
I glanced between them.
“What does the key open?”
Anthony’s eyes shifted to me.
“Sophie.”
It was not quite a warning. More like a boundary being placed between us.
Maria ignored it.
“It opens a room in an old building near the waterfront.”
Anthony’s voice hardened.
“We don’t know that.”
“Yes, we do.”
“You haven’t seen that key in twenty years.”
“Twenty-two.”
The exactness of the answer filled the car with a new tension.
Anthony leaned forward.
“You recognized it?”
Maria’s face changed.
For the first time since I had met her, she looked old.
Not weak. Not confused. Simply burdened by years no one else could see.
“I recognized it the moment it touched the table.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because six strangers had just interrupted dinner.”
“You knew what it meant.”
“I knew what it used to mean.”
“And now?”
Maria looked at him with steady sadness.
“Now it means someone wants us to remember.”
The sedan turned onto a quieter street lined with brownstones. Rain slid across the windows.
Anthony opened his hand.
The key was small, old-fashioned, and darkened with age. A number had been engraved along one side.
I stopped breathing.
Anthony noticed.
“What?”
I looked away.
“Nothing.”
“Sophie.”
“It’s just a number.”
“You reacted to it.”
“I thought I recognized it.”
“From where?”
I searched my memory.
A wooden box beneath my grandmother’s bed.
Stacks of unpaid medical invoices.
Photographs tied with faded ribbon.
And a torn luggage tag with the number 314 written in blue ink.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
Anthony’s gaze remained on me.
He knew I was withholding something.
The problem was, I did not yet understand what it was.
The car stopped in front of a wide limestone house with iron gates and warm light glowing behind tall windows. It was elegant without being flashy, the sort of place that had stood through several versions of the city and expected to outlast several more.
Inside, the house smelled of polished wood, old books, and something sweet baking.
A housekeeper named Elena rushed toward Maria.
“Mrs. Russo, are you all right?”
“I am hungry.”
Elena pressed a hand to her chest.
“Mr. Russo called. He said there had been an incident.”
“The incident is that I still have not eaten.”
Anthony removed his coat.
“Please bring her soup.”
“And eggplant,” Maria added.
“We don’t have eggplant.”
“Then call Bellarosa.”
Anthony gave Elena a tired look.
“Soup first.”
Maria allowed herself to be led into a sitting room.
I remained near the entrance, dripping rainwater onto a marble floor that probably cost more than everything I owned.
Anthony handed his coat to a man waiting nearby.
“You can relax,” he told me.
“I’m trying not to damage anything.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know me very well.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t.”
