My Birthday Invite Went to the Wrong Number—Then the Mafia Boss Walked In

The next hour broke my life into a before and an after.

Stefano's men took Mrs. Delaney and Mr. Avery home under guard. I argued until my throat hurt, then agreed to get into Stefano's car because Claire was either a hostage or part of whatever was happening, and I had no better option.

"If you lie to me," I said as the sedan pulled away from St. Bridget's, "I get out. I don't care if we're moving."

"Fair."

"Who is Vincent Caruso?"

"A man who worked for my father. Then for me."

"Worked doing what?"

He looked out the window.

"Things you don't want described on your birthday."

"Try me."

Stefano gave the driver an address on the North Side, then turned back to me.

"My family owned trucking companies, restaurants, construction firms. Some were legitimate. Some weren't. My father believed fear was cheaper than loyalty. Paula hated him for it."

I pictured the girl I had known: chipped purple nail polish, cheap headphones, laugh too loud for the library.

"She told me her dad sold appliances."

"He owned an appliance warehouse. It was useful for moving things that were not appliances."

I pressed my hands against my knees.

"And you?"

"I was twenty-four when Paula disappeared. I was already becoming the son my father wanted. She wanted out. She used our mother's last name at school. Romano. She met you. She met your mother."

"My mother knew?"

"Some of it. More than you did."

I hated how calmly he said it.

"Paula left Chicago two weeks after graduation. I thought she went to California."

"She went to Milwaukee first. Then Seattle. Then Montreal. She changed names twice."

"Why didn't she contact me?"

For the first time, Stefano looked uncertain.

"She did."

My breath stopped.

He reached into his coat and pulled out an old photograph, edges worn soft. Paula stood beside a bus station locker, older than I remembered, hair cut short. On the back, in blue ink, she had written one line.

If anything happens, Nora knows where home is.

"I never got anything from her."

"I know."

"How?"

"Because after she died, I found eleven letters she had written to you. None were mailed."

Anger rose so fast it made my eyes burn.

"You had them?"

"I found them after her death. In a safe deposit box."

"Eight years ago?"

"Yes."

"And you never brought them to me?"

He said nothing.