Chapter 1
Gabriel didn’t answer me.
His eyes remained fixed on the front windows of my studio.
Outside, late-afternoon traffic moved along the wet street. A delivery truck passed. Two teenagers hurried beneath one umbrella. Nothing looked unusual.
But the man beside me had changed completely.
The relaxed shoulders were gone.
The reluctant smile too.
His hand slipped from mine.
“Marco,” he said.
His security chief stepped closer.
“Boss.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“What exactly happened?”
Marco glanced at me.
Gabriel noticed.
“You can speak.”
The permission irritated me for reasons I couldn’t explain.
It was my studio.
But I kept quiet.
Marco lowered his voice anyway.
“One of the drivers got a message.”
“What message?”
“A photograph.”
Gabriel’s face hardened.
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
Rose Moretti stopped unwrapping her second caramel.
That was the first sign she understood the seriousness.
Gabriel held out his hand.
Marco passed him a phone.
I watched Gabriel look at the screen.
His expression didn’t change.
That somehow made the room feel colder.
“What is it?” I asked.
Gabriel hesitated.
Then turned the phone toward me.
The photograph had clearly been taken from across the street.
Gabriel stood inside my studio, one hand in mine.
Rose sat near the mirrors.
I was facing him, smiling.
Below the image were six words.
THURSDAYS WERE YOUR FATHER’S DAY TOO.
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Gabriel looked at his grandmother.
Rose had gone pale.
“Nana?”
She folded the caramel wrapper very carefully.
“Not here.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.
“That message was sent because someone knew where I was.”
“Yes.”
“And you know what it means.”
Rose looked at me.
Then toward Marco.
“Claire shouldn’t be involved.”
I crossed my arms.
“I’m already in a photograph.”
Rose’s expression softened.
“You’re right.”
Gabriel immediately said, “No.”
I looked at him.
“No?”
“You don’t need to hear this.”
Something about that answer annoyed me more than fear did.
I stepped backward.
“You know, for a man who spent an hour being told not to control his dance partner, you’re returning to form quickly.”
Marco looked away.
Rose almost smiled.
Gabriel did not.
“This isn’t dancing.”
“No. It’s my business.”
“I mean my world.”
“And right now your world is standing on my floor.”
He stared.
I pointed toward the photograph.
“Someone took a picture through my window. If there’s a reason Thursdays matter, I’d like enough information to decide whether I lock the front door differently next week.”
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Recognition.
I had given him a choice he couldn’t argue with.
Rose stood.
“She’s right.”
Gabriel looked at her.
“You planned this.”
“I paid for lessons.”
“You chose Thursday.”
Silence.
“Nana.”
Rose sighed.
“Yes.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
She looked suddenly eighty.
Not frail.
Just tired in a way I hadn’t seen earlier.
“Because Thursday was the night your grandfather taught your father to dance.”
Gabriel stared.
I had expected almost anything else.
“What?”
Rose sat again.
“Your father was seventeen.”
Gabriel’s face remained unreadable.
“He hated dancing,” Rose continued.
“Runs in the family,” I said quietly.
Rose smiled faintly.
“Very much.”
Gabriel gave me a look.
I ignored it.
Rose continued.
“Every Thursday evening, your grandfather closed his office early and came home. They practiced in the dining room.”
Gabriel looked genuinely confused.
“Dad danced?”
“Badly.”
“So why—”
“Because he was getting ready for a girl.”
Rose’s eyes warmed with memory.
“A school dance. Her name was Teresa. Your father was convinced she’d say no unless he could dance.”
Gabriel stared.
“My father never mentioned a Teresa.”
“He didn’t marry her.”
“I gathered.”
Rose’s smile disappeared.
“But Thursdays became important.”
She looked down at her hands.
“When your grandfather died, your father kept leaving work early on Thursdays.”
“To dance?”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“To come home.”
That quieted all of us.
Gabriel looked toward the mirrors.
I wondered what he saw.
Not himself, perhaps.
Another man.
His father.
His grandfather.
People I knew only through Rose’s memories.
“What does the message mean?” Gabriel asked.
Rose’s hands tightened in her lap.
“Your father stopped coming home on Thursdays a year before he died.”
“Why?”
She didn’t answer.
Gabriel’s voice hardened.
“Nana.”
“Because he started meeting someone.”
I saw something shift in Gabriel’s eyes.
“Who?”
“I never knew.”
“You never asked?”
“Of course I asked.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was fixing something he should have fixed years earlier.”
Gabriel crossed his arms.
“And you accepted that?”
Rose looked offended.
“Your grandfather and I were married fifty-eight years. I learned the difference between giving someone privacy and pretending not to notice.”
Gabriel almost smiled.
Almost.
“Did Dad ever explain?”
“No.”
“Then why did you choose Thursday for lessons?”
Rose looked at him.
“Because two months ago, someone sent me your father’s old appointment book.”
Gabriel went perfectly still.
Marco stepped forward.
“Who sent it?”
“No name.”
“Where is it?” Gabriel asked.
“At home.”
“You didn’t tell me?”
Rose raised her chin.
“No.”
Gabriel exhaled slowly.
“Why?”
“Because you would have taken it.”
“Yes.”
“You would have called ten men.”
“Yes.”
“You would have turned a dead man’s calendar into an investigation before I understood what I was looking at.”
“Yes.”
Rose smiled sweetly.
“Exactly.”
I covered my mouth.
Gabriel glared at me.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
His expression suggested nobody had ever enjoyed being present while his grandmother defeated him in an argument.
Rose continued.
“Every Thursday for almost a year, your father had the same handwritten note.”
“What note?”
She looked directly at Gabriel.
R.M. — 4:00. Dance.
The room went silent.
Gabriel’s face changed.
“R.M.”
Rose nodded.
“Those were my initials once.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Rosalia Mancini.”
Her maiden name.
Gabriel looked at her.
“You think Dad was meeting you?”
“No.”
“I was living with him.”
“Then who?”
Rose opened her purse.
She removed a folded photocopy.
“I don’t know.”
Gabriel took it.
I stayed where I was.
This time he looked at me.
Then handed me the page too.
A copy of an old planner.
Thursday after Thursday.
4:00 p.m.
R.M. — Dance
Then, near the final month, the notation changed.
R.M. — Donovan Studio
My breath stopped.
“Donovan?”
Rose looked at me.
“That is why I chose your studio.”
I stared.
“My studio didn’t exist then.”
“I know.”
“I opened six years ago.”
“I know.”
Gabriel’s gaze sharpened.
“How did you know her?”
Rose looked almost apologetic.
“I did research.”
“How much research?”
“Enough.”
“Nana.”
“Don’t use that tone.”
I might have laughed if my heart weren’t beating so fast.
“My father owned this building,” I said quietly.
Everyone turned toward me.
Gabriel frowned.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Was this a dance studio?”
“No.”
I looked around.
“It was a community center.”
Rose’s expression changed.
“What was his name?”
“Patrick Donovan.”
Her eyes widened.
“Oh.”
I hated that sound.
“What?”
Rose sat back.
“I knew Patrick.”
My stomach dropped.
“You what?”
“Not well.”
“How?”
“He taught community dance classes here.”
I stared.
“No.”
“He did.”
“My father was an accountant.”
“He was also a terrible waltz instructor.”
That sounded impossible.
Then a memory surfaced.
Old records stacked in our basement.
Music playing late at night.
Dad dancing with Mom in the kitchen after thinking I’d gone to bed.
I had always assumed that was simply them.
“Why did he stop?”
Rose’s expression softened.
“Ask your mother.”
“My mother is dead.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry.”
“She died nine years ago.”
Rose nodded.
“My condolences.”
I looked at the planner again.
“Was my father R.M.?”
“No.”
“Then who was?”
Nobody knew.
Marco’s phone buzzed.
He looked at it.
Then at Gabriel.
“Another message.”
Gabriel held out his hand.
This time Marco hesitated.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“You should see it alone.”
“No.”
Gabriel looked at me.
Then at Rose.
“We’re past that.”
Marco passed him the phone.
The new message contained no photograph.
Only text.
ASK CLAIRE WHAT HER FATHER KEPT UNDER THE FLOOR.
My skin prickled.
Gabriel looked at me.
I laughed nervously.
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Was the floor ever renovated?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before I opened.”
“By who?”
“Me and a contractor.”
“Did you find anything?”
“No.”
Then I remembered.
Not the studio floor.
The office.
When we renovated the small back office, one section of flooring had been newer than the rest.
My father had used that room years earlier.
“I need to show you something.”
Gabriel immediately said, “No.”
I glared.
He stopped.
Then corrected himself.
“Do you want us to come?”
Better.
“Yes.”
We went into the back office.
Small.
Desk.
Filing cabinet.
A bookshelf filled with dance competition programs and tax receipts.
I pointed toward the corner.
“That section.”
Gabriel crouched.
I almost laughed.
Seeing a man in a ten-thousand-dollar suit kneeling beside my scratched office floor was unexpectedly satisfying.
Marco brought tools from the security vehicle.
Apparently mafia security chiefs carried everything.
Ten minutes later, one board lifted.
Nothing.
Another.
Dust.
Then beneath the third board sat a flat metal box.
Nobody spoke.
My hands went cold.
“That has been there for years.”
Gabriel stood.
“Don’t touch it.”
I stared.
“You were doing so well.”
“Claire.”
“Fine.”
Marco examined it first.
No wires.
No lock mechanism beyond a rusted clasp.
He placed it on the desk.
I opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
An old ballroom dance medal.
And a VHS tape labeled:
FOR ROSE — IF ANTHONY DOESN’T MAKE IT HOME
Rose made a sound.
Gabriel turned toward her.
“Anthony.”
His father’s name.
Rose sat slowly.
“Oh, Anthony.”
Her hand trembled.
I touched her shoulder.
Gabriel noticed.
Something in his face softened.
Then I looked through the photographs.
One showed my father.
Patrick Donovan.
Younger than I remembered.
Standing beside Anthony Moretti.
They were smiling.
Another showed Rose.
Another showed a woman I didn’t know.
Dark hair.
Maybe thirty.
On the back:
Rose, Anthony, Patrick, and Maria — Thursday class, 1998.
Gabriel took the photograph.
“Maria.”
Rose closed her eyes.
“Maria Russo.”
“Who was she?”
“Your father’s younger sister.”
Gabriel stared.
“I don’t have an aunt named Maria.”
Rose’s eyes opened.
“No.”
Her voice shook.
“Because after she left, your grandfather stopped speaking her name.”
The room fell silent.
“What happened?”
Rose took the photograph.
“Maria fell in love with a man your grandfather hated.”
“Why?”
“He wasn’t Italian?”
May you like
“No.”
“He wasn’t criminal?”
