Chapter 2
Antonio Russo’s words followed me all the way back to the kitchen.
“You just earned my respect.”
I had expected a warning.
Instead, I got something that unsettled me even more.
Respect from Antonio Russo was not the kind of thing an ordinary waitress knew what to do with.
For the rest of my shift, I avoided looking toward Table Seven. Every time I carried a plate through the dining room, I could feel the strange shift in the restaurant. Marco suddenly stopped criticizing the angle at which I carried trays. The bartender offered to refill my water without being asked. Even the chef, who normally communicated through frustrated sighs, quietly slid a plate of ravioli toward me during my break.
“Eat,” he muttered.
I stared at him.
“What?”
“You look pale.”
Across the restaurant, Maria was laughing at something her son had said.
Antonio looked different when he was with her.
Not harmless. I wasn’t foolish enough to decide that based on one dinner.
But different.
He listened when she spoke. He cut her bread when her hands became unsteady. He moved her water closer without drawing attention to it.
Once, Maria caught me looking.
She smiled.
I immediately turned away.
By closing time, Antonio and his mother were gone.
So were his bodyguards.
Yet something had been left behind.
A small cream envelope sat beside the register with my name written across the front.
Sophie.
My stomach tightened.
Marco noticed it at the same moment.
His eyebrows rose.
“That’s yours.”
“I can see that.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Not here.”
He gave me a look that suggested this was the most interesting thing to happen at Bellarosa in years.
“Suit yourself.”
I slipped the envelope into my apron.
I didn’t open it until I was sitting on the late-night bus to my apartment.
Inside was not money.
There was only a card.
Thank you for treating me like Maria instead of Mrs. Russo.
Lunch tomorrow, if you can.
11:30.
Rossi’s Bakery, Carroll Gardens.
—Maria
Below that, in smaller handwriting:
My son will not be there.
I laughed before I could stop myself.
The woman clearly knew exactly what worried me.
I should have thrown the card away.
Instead, I went.
Rossi’s Bakery was the kind of place that still displayed wedding photographs from customers whose children were now old enough to have weddings of their own. The glass case held cannoli, lemon cookies, sfogliatelle, and cakes decorated with elaborate sugar roses.
Maria sat at a corner table wearing a pale blue cardigan.
No pearls this time.
No bodyguards.
No Antonio.
When she saw me, her face brightened.
“You came.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“That means you have good instincts.”
I stopped beside the chair.
“That isn’t very reassuring.”
Maria laughed.
“Sit down, Sophie.”
I did.
A waitress brought coffee before I ordered it.
Maria pointed at the cup.
“Antonio told them how I take mine. I told them nothing about yours.”
“That’s comforting.”
She studied my face.
“You’re afraid of him.”
I glanced around.
“Shouldn’t I be?”
Maria didn’t answer immediately.
She stirred her coffee slowly.
“My son has spent most of his adult life being judged by people who either fear him, want something from him, or already decided what kind of man he is before meeting him.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t.”
There was something about her honesty that made me stay.
Maria broke a lemon cookie in half.
“Antonio is complicated.”
“That sounds like something mothers say when their sons are impossible.”
Her eyes sparkled.
“That too.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
Then she asked, “Why did you leave nursing school?”
My smile disappeared.
“I told you. Life interrupted.”
“You told me you stopped. You didn’t tell me why.”
I looked down at my coffee.
There were facts I had learned to say without emotion.
My grandmother had developed heart problems.
Then kidney problems.
Then complications from medications.
Appointments became hospital stays. Hospital stays became bills. Insurance covered some things, but never enough.
I worked evenings.
Then weekends.
Then nights.
Eventually my tuition money disappeared.
Three months before graduation, I withdrew.
My grandmother died seven months later.
I had never gone back.
That was the short version.
The longer version lived in a cardboard box under my bed, alongside my textbooks, old clinical notes, and the white nursing shoes I had never managed to throw away.
“I couldn’t afford it anymore,” I said.
Maria nodded.
“And now?”
“Now I can barely afford rent.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
I looked at her.
She leaned forward.
“Do you still want to be a nurse?”
The answer came so quickly that it embarrassed me.
“Yes.”
Maria smiled gently.
“Then perhaps the path isn’t gone.”
I felt a familiar frustration rise in me.
People with money always spoke about dreams as though they were delayed trains.
Just wait long enough and another would arrive.
“Tuition isn’t a path,” I said. “It’s a bill.”
Maria’s smile faded.
“You’re right.”
That surprised me.
She didn’t tell me to believe harder.
She didn’t tell me everything happened for a reason.
She simply nodded.
“My husband used to say that money doesn’t buy happiness.”
“People without money usually find that sentence irritating.”
Maria laughed so hard she had to set down her coffee.
“Oh, Sophie. I like you.”
The bakery door opened.
I stiffened.
Antonio walked in.
I turned sharply toward Maria.
“You said he wouldn’t be here.”
“I said he wouldn’t be here for lunch.”
Antonio reached our table carrying a brown paper bag.
“Mama, you forgot your medication at home.”
Maria frowned.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
He set the bag beside her.
Then he looked at me.
“Sophie.”
“Mr. Russo.”
“Antonio.”
“I think Mr. Russo is fine.”
Something almost like amusement moved across his face.
Maria sighed dramatically.
“You two sound like diplomats negotiating a cease-fire.”
“Mama.”
“What?”
He glanced at her.
“You invited her here?”
“Yes.”
“You said you were meeting Teresa.”
“Teresa talks too much.”
“I know.”
“So I changed my plans.”
Antonio looked back at me.
For several seconds, I had the uncomfortable impression that he was trying to decide whether my presence was a problem.
Then Maria said, “Sophie wants to finish nursing school.”
I nearly dropped my cup.
“Maria.”
“What?”
“I didn’t say you could tell him.”
Antonio’s expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“You were in nursing school?”
“One semester short.”
He pulled out the remaining chair but did not sit.
“Where?”
“Brooklyn College’s partner nursing program.”
“When did you leave?”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
His gaze remained steady.
“Because my family funds several education programs.”
“I don’t want money.”
“I didn’t offer you any.”
Heat climbed into my face.
Maria hid a smile behind her napkin.
Antonio continued.
“I was going to say there may be scholarships you qualify for.”
“That’s still money.”
“It’s also what scholarships are for.”
“I don’t want a favor because I helped your mother take two pills.”
For the first time, his composure cracked.
Not with anger.
With surprise.
Then he sat down.
“Do you think I go around handing tuition checks to everyone who helps my mother?”
“I don’t know what you do.”
“That,” Maria said softly, “is the first sensible thing either of you has said.”
Antonio ignored her.
He rested his forearms on the table.
“There’s a scholarship administered by the Russo Foundation. It isn’t mine to award. Applications are reviewed by an independent committee.”
I hesitated.
“The Russo Foundation?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“No.”
“Good.”
That answer confused me.
He continued.
“It supports nursing students, caregivers returning to school, and community health workers.”
I stared at him.
Of all the charitable foundations I might have imagined connected to Antonio Russo, nursing scholarships were not on the list.
“Why?”
His gaze shifted toward Maria.
“My father.”
Maria went very still.
Antonio seemed to realize he had said more than intended.
He stood.
“I have a meeting.”
Maria looked up at him.
“Antonio.”
He kissed her forehead.
“Don’t forget the medication.”
Then he left.
I watched him disappear through the bakery door.
“What did he mean?” I asked.
Maria folded her hands.
“My husband was ill for a long time before he died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He hated hospitals.”
She smiled faintly.
“Not the doctors. Not the nurses. The helplessness.”
Something softened in her expression.
“One nurse made it bearable.”
I understood immediately.
May you like
Maria looked toward the door through which Antonio had disappeared.
“My son never forgot her.”
