Chapter 2 — You Don’t Own My Tomorrow

Dante stopped with his hand on the door.

Behind the host stand, Marco made a small choking sound.

Rico Moretti looked at me over his sleeping son’s head.

“No?”

“You’re inviting me to your house tomorrow. I’m allowed to answer.”

“I wasn’t inviting you.”

“That’s the problem.”

His eyes narrowed.

Outside, a black SUV idled at the curb. The driver stood beside it, pretending not to watch us through the glass.

I could hear my own pulse.

Rico adjusted Leo against his shoulder.

“My son asked you to stay.”

“And I stayed.”

“He’ll ask for you in the morning.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know my son.”

I glanced at the little fist caught in his collar.

“Then you know he needs more than someone who happened to bring the right drink.”

Something passed across his face.

“Tell me what you want.”

“For you to ask.”

Dante looked away.

Rico noticed.

“Do you need a moment, Russo?”

“No, boss.”

His mouth was suspiciously tight.

Rico looked back at me.

“Will you come to my house tomorrow?”

The question sounded as though each word had been dragged out of him separately.

“Possibly.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“If I agree, we can discuss payment. You can’t buy my agreement first.”

“I employ people, Clara. Usually that involves money.”

“Usually they get to decide whether they want the job.”

“You work for me already.”

“I serve dinner in your restaurant. That doesn’t give you my Saturday morning.”

He studied me.

I wished I had changed out of the apron. It was difficult to defend your independence while wearing somebody else’s logo.

“How long?” he asked.

“Two hours. Just to see how it goes.”

“And after that?”

“We decide afterward.”

He nodded once.

“Fine.”

“I keep my restaurant shifts.”

“Fine.”

“No one carries a gun in the room where I’m sitting with Leo.”

Dante turned back.

“That’s not—”

Rico stopped him with a glance.

I looked at Rico’s jacket.

“That includes you.”

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Rico said, “Anything else?”

“A licensed child trauma therapist.”

“He’s seen doctors.”

“What kind?”

“Pediatricians. Specialists.”

“Someone who works with young children after traumatic loss?”

His expression answered before his mouth did.

“I’ll make a call.”

“I mean it. I’m not qualified to treat him.”

“Yet you were happy to tell me what to do.”

“I’ve helped someone through panic before. That doesn’t make me a therapist.”

Leo shifted against his shoulder.

Rico lowered his voice.

“Two hours. Your shifts stay. No weapons in the family room. I contact a therapist.”

“And nobody decides I’m moving in.”

His brows drew together.

“Did I ask you to move in?”

“You skipped the invitation part five minutes ago. I’m covering the possibilities.”

Dante coughed.

This time, Rico almost smiled.

It disappeared before I could be certain.

“Give Dante your number. He’ll send the address.”

Rico turned toward the door.

Leo lifted his head.

He blinked at me, heavy-eyed.

“Tomorrow?”

I looked at his father.

Then at him.

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

He settled back against Rico’s shoulder.

I watched them reach the car.

Sarah appeared beside me.

“You told him no.”

“I heard myself.”

“You told him no several times.”

“I may throw up now.”

She took the empty cup from my hand.

“Do it in the staff bathroom. Marco’s suffered enough.”

At nine fifty-two the next morning, I stood outside a limestone townhouse in Brooklyn Heights and wondered whether two hours counted as a small enough mistake to recover from.

The address Dante had sent came with no instructions about clothing.

I wore jeans, a plain blue sweater, and the only dry shoes I owned.

Two men stood near the entrance. Neither looked like he had come to admire the architecture.

Dante opened the door before I rang.

“Morning.”

“How’s your hand?”

He glanced at the bandage.

“My reputation may never recover.”

“I won’t tell anybody.”

“Half the restaurant saw.”

“Then charge them for silence.”

He gave me a brief, surprised smile.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of coffee and furniture polish.

A guard stood beside the living-room doorway.

I stopped.

Rico was descending the stairs in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

Without the jacket, he looked younger.

Without the restaurant watching him, he still looked difficult.

“You’re early.”

“You agreed to something.”

His gaze followed mine to the guard.

“He’s in the hall.”

“He’s standing in the doorway.”

Rico exhaled.

“Anthony. Outside.”

The guard left without argument.

Rico looked at me.

“Satisfied?”

“We’ve been doing this for thirty seconds.”

“I noticed.”

A small face appeared between the stair rails.

Leo stared.

Then he shouted, “Milk lady!”

I laughed.

Rico looked up.

“She has a name.”

Leo hurried down, one hand sliding along the rail.

Rico caught the back of his shirt when he tried to jump the final step.

“Walk.”

Leo walked for approximately six inches before running into my legs.

I steadied myself against the doorframe.

“You came.”

“I said I would.”

He tipped his head back.

“Milk?”

“Maybe later. Do you have anything to show me first?”

He grabbed my hand.

“Blocks.”

The living room held photographs everywhere.

Elena in a wedding dress, laughing at something outside the frame. Elena with a sleeping infant against her shoulder. Rico holding a toddler on a beach while she stood beside them.

I looked away before Rico caught me staring.

On the rug, Leo dumped a basket of wooden blocks between us.

“House.”

“All right. What does it need?”

“Door.”

We built a door.

He knocked it down.

We built another.

Rico stood near the window, speaking quietly into his phone.

Each time he moved, Leo stopped stacking.

At first, I thought the boy wanted him to join us.

Then Rico crossed toward the hall.

Leo’s hand froze above the tower.

The block fell.

“No.”

Rico covered the phone.

“What?”

Leo scrambled to his feet.

“Daddy.”

“I’m here.”

But he was still walking.

Leo followed.

I rose slowly.

“Could you tell him where you’re going?”

Rico looked irritated.

“My office.”

“Tell him.”

His eyes flicked toward the phone.

The person on the other end was evidently still speaking.

Rico ended the call.

He crouched.

“I’m going to the office across the hall.”

Leo reached for his shirt.

“How many?”

Rico looked at me.

“What does that mean?”

“How long. He asked me last night how many sips. Try giving him something he can count.”

Rico returned his attention to Leo.

“Ten minutes.”

Leo held up both hands.

“Ten?”

“Yes.”

“Then here?”

“Then here.”

We set the kitchen timer on my phone.

Leo sat beside me, facing the doorway.

He counted his fingers twice. Then he asked whether ten was finished.

“Not yet.”

“Daddy gone?”

“Across the hall.”

I pointed.

“Remember where he said?”

Leo nodded.

He held a block without doing anything with it.

I built a crooked tower.

He frowned.

“No. Big one bottom.”

“You’ll have to show me.”

He put down his block and corrected mine.

When the timer still had a minute left, Rico appeared in the doorway.

Leo looked up.

For a moment, he seemed uncertain.

Then he ran.

Rico caught him and lifted him against his chest.

“Ten,” Leo said.

“Nine, actually.”

Leo put both palms against his father’s face.

“Back.”

“Yes.”

Rico’s eyes met mine over the boy’s shoulder.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

Something about his expression made me look down.

He sat with us afterward.

At first, he built a wall so carefully that Leo complained it took too long.

Then he let his son drive a toy truck through it.

Blocks scattered beneath the coffee table.

Leo laughed.

Rico stared at him.

I pretended to search for a missing wheel.

By lunchtime, my two hours were nearly up.

A woman Rico introduced as Mrs. Alvarez brought bowls to the dining table. Leo wanted me beside him, so I stayed long enough to help with lunch.

Rico checked the time.

“You have somewhere to be?”

“Not until my shift.”

“Then you could stay.”

“You could ask.”

His mouth tightened.

Then he pulled out the chair across from me.

“Would you like lunch?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The words felt oddly intimate after all the arguing.

Mrs. Alvarez set a little bowl of pasta in front of Leo.

He looked down.

His body went rigid.

Then he shoved the bowl so hard I barely caught it before it fell.

“No!”

“It’s all right,” I said.

He shook his head, eyes filling.

“No red.”

Rico stopped moving.

I looked at the tomato sauce staining the rim.

“Does he always refuse this?”

Mrs. Alvarez reached for the bowl.

“Lately.”

Rico stared at his son’s untouched lunch.

“He used to love it.”

I set the bowl out of sight.

“When did that change?”

Rico lifted his eyes to mine.

I knew the answer before he spoke.