“Mr. Carlucci.” I say, leaning over and giving him a one-armed hug, trying not to wrinkle his ten-thousand-dollar suit, nor crush the carnation in its lapel.
“Damien, after all these years, I still have to remind you to call me Sal. When are you ever going to loosen up around me?”
“Never Sir.” I chuckle, grabbing a chair from behind me and pulling it to the table.
Sitting down in it backwards, facing him, I rest my arms across the back of it and place my chin in them, watching him enjoy his meal with his family, wondering how he manages it all, especially with all the losses the family has taken over the past few years, including the deaths of his three sons.
“You’re family, you know.”
“I know Sir.” I sigh, enjoying the little reprieve from the bustle and busyness of the kitchen. “You have details for me?”
“Always all business. Eat, relax, enjoy.” He says, grabbing a large plate of eggs, sausage, bacon, and home fries and sliding it in front of me. “Have some of your own cooking. It’s the best you know.”
“Thank you Sir.” I say, taking the plate graciously even though I’m really not hungry, because no one says “no” to Salvatore Carlucci.
I’m just taking my first bite when he lowers his voice and leans in closer to me, close enough I can smell the spiciness of his very subtle cologne.
“The Recluse.” He all but whispers. “If anyone can find her it’s you.”
“Do you have anything for me to go on?” I ask, taking a bite of the eggs and enjoying how perfect they really are. I am the best chef after all.
“She’s the sole heir to the Scarpino fortune. The daughter of Michael and Bethany. Rumor has it she’s been overseas the past few years, moving between their properties in Barcelona, Paris, and the homeland in Tuscany.”
“What does she look like, do we know?”
“It changes. She’s perfected being able to blend in wherever she goes. Her father has taught her well, as has her supposed boyfriend, Jason something.”
“A boyfriend? So she doesn’t travel alone?”
“No.” He says, looking down at my plate and smiling when he sees that while we’ve talked I’ve polished off everything and not left a crumb behind.
“Anything else?” I ask, wiping my mouth with one of the gold edged, cream colored linen napkins from the table.
“Only that you may already know her.”
“Oh?” I say, my eyebrows shooting up, my attention fully set on his face as he nods slowly.
“How I don’t know, but again, all I have a rumors.”
“Well, none of my acquaintances are ummm, family orientated.” I chuckle. “So maybe the rumors aren’t true at all.”
“The only one I believe, is that she’s here now, in the states, maybe even local. Her father is ill, and he might not live much longer. She has to be here to sign the papers for her inheritance if he passes, and I know sure as shit no one would pass up that fortune. Even if she knows it’s dangerous to come stateside, she’ll be here for the money.”
“Well, then I’ll start looking tonight.”
Chapter Four
Maps, folders, files, and an array of trash from my snacks are scattered across the small, round, dining table in my apartment. The single bulb fixture overhead casts shadows through its simple, white shade as I sit under it, leafing through all the information Salvatore was able to get me throughout the day.
When I left the restaurant the large manila envelope had been stuck into my riding jacket that was hung on the coat rack by the door, having most likely been dropped off by one of his disposable goons while I was busy finishing the dinner rush. When we’re that slammed with work, and the food is flying off the line and out the doors to the dining room, my attention is nowhere else but the tasks at hand and making sure my staff are on their toes to keep up.
Brushing the wrapper from my beef jerky stick off a folder, I pick it up and flip it open. Photographs fall out, most of them of poor quality, and I wonder why, in 2025, security cameras are still capturing shit in messy black, white, and greyscales. It’d be difficult to recognize a sasquatch in one of them, let alone a single little woman.
Nothing in them looks familiar, and some of the pictures are from other countries, and I’m about to give up and toss them in the trash for being useless when the last one catches my eye.
“The Book Stop huh?” I say out loud to myself, grabbing a packet of sunflower seeds from my basket of snacks that sits amongst the mess. “When was this, that you were literally across the street from our restaurant?”
Scanning the photograph, the date and time stamp in the corner shows that it was the last one taken, just days ago, and in Charlotte, within almost touching distance.
