Chapter 3 - The Name Enzo Left Off the List

Enzo arrived twelve minutes later.

Not Frankie.

Enzo.

No coat.

No tie.

One black car behind him.

Khloe opened the apartment door only after checking twice.

He stepped inside.

His eyes moved over everything.

The overdue notices.

The chipped table.

The framed photograph of Khloe and her father.

Then the window.

“Which car?”

Khloe pointed.

The black sedan was gone.

Enzo called Frankie.

“Plate?”

Khloe blinked.

“You saw it?”

“Last four.”

She repeated them.

Enzo looked at her.

“You memorized it.”

“My mother taught me to listen.”

A pause.

“And look.”

Something shifted in his expression.

Frankie left.

Enzo remained.

Khloe crossed her arms.

“Your uncle.”

“Yes.”

“Why would he threaten me?”

“He heard you speak.”

“That’s enough?”

“For him, maybe.”

“What is his name?”

“Carlo Bianke.”

Khloe knew it.

Everyone in the old Sicilian neighborhoods knew it.

Carlo Bianke.

Enzo’s father’s younger brother.

Quiet power.

Old money.

Never photographed if he could help it.

Khloe sat slowly.

“You left him off the list.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if Carlo is involved, the list does not matter.”

“That seems important.”

“I did not know he was watching the restaurant.”

Khloe stared.

“You don’t know who watches your own restaurant?”

His jaw tightened.

“No.”

That answer cost him.

She could tell.

Enzo looked at the bills on the table.

Then the medical statement.

“Your father.”

“He’s dead.”

“I know.”

She looked at him sharply.

“How?”

“I had Frankie check you before I asked you upstairs.”

Khloe laughed without humor.

“Of course you did.”

“Pancreatic cancer.”

“Yes.”

“Three years.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother?”

“Dead when I was sixteen.”

Enzo’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“She was from Palermo.”

“Outside Palermo.”

“Name?”

Khloe did not like the question.

“Why?”

“Because Carlo called you in dialect.”

“He called me because I spoke it.”

“Maybe.”

Khloe stared at him.

“What are you not saying?”

Enzo looked at the photograph on the table.

Khloe’s mother.

Young.

Dark hair.

Sharp cheekbones.

He picked it up.

Khloe stood.

“Put that down.”

He did.

Immediately.

Then:

“I knew her.”

Khloe froze.

“No.”

“Not well.”

“You never met my mother.”

“I did.”

“When?”

“When I was seventeen.”

Khloe stared.

Enzo was thirty-four.

Seventeen years ago.

Her mother had still been alive.

“Where?”

“Palermo.”

Khloe’s mouth went dry.

“My mother never went back after she came here.”

“That is what she told you.”

Silence.

Enzo reached into his pocket.

A photograph.

Old.

Creased.

Four people outside a stone house.

Enzo at seventeen.

His father.

Carlo.

And Khloe’s mother.

Khloe stopped breathing.

“No.”

Her mother looked younger.

But it was her.

Same eyes.

Same scar near the eyebrow.

Khloe touched the photograph.

“What was she doing there?”

Enzo answered:

“Translating.”

“For who?”

“My father.”

Khloe looked at him.

“My mother was a translator?”

“Among other things.”

“What other things?”

Enzo hesitated.

Khloe’s expression hardened.

“Do not decide what I can handle.”

He nodded.

Then said:

“She carried messages.”

“For the Bianke family?”

“Yes.”

“For your father?”

“Yes.”

“And Carlo?”

“Sometimes.”

Khloe sat.

The room felt too small.

“My mother cleaned houses.”

“She did that too.”

Khloe laughed once.

Everything she knew about her mother had suddenly gained a second life.

Enzo continued.

“She left after something happened.”

“What?”

“A shipment disappeared.”

“What shipment?”

“Cash.”

“How much?”

“Two million.”

Khloe stared.

“You think my mother stole two million dollars?”

“No.”

“Carlo did.”

Silence.

Enzo said:

“Your mother saw it.”

Khloe looked at the photo again.

“She knew.”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t she say anything?”

“She tried.”

“To your father?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“My father sent her to America.”

Khloe frowned.

“To protect her?”

“Yes.”

“From Carlo.”

“Yes.”

Khloe closed her eyes.

The threatening call made sense now.

Not because she was a waitress.

Not because she spoke Sicilian.

Because her mother had once been a witness.

Khloe whispered:

“Carlo recognized my name.”

Enzo nodded.

“Maro.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother used that name after she left.”

“She was born Romano.”

Enzo went still.

Khloe noticed.

“What?”

He looked at her.

“Say that again.”

“My mother’s maiden name was Romano.”

Enzo stood.

The chair moved hard against the floor.

“Sal Romano.”

Khloe stared.

“The capo downstairs.”

“Yes.”

“What about him?”

Enzo’s voice became cold.

“Sal is Carlo’s nephew.”

Silence.

Khloe looked at the photograph.

Then remembered Sal’s face when she spoke Sicilian.

Not just anger.

Recognition.

She whispered:

“He knew who I was.”

Enzo nodded.

“And now I know why he almost hit Tommy in front of you.”

Khloe frowned.

“Why?”

Enzo looked at her.

“He wanted to see if you would speak.”

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