Chapter 1 - The Jar of Coins
The Little Girl Offered a Mafia Boss $47.83 to Buy Her Mother a Home.
Then One Name on an Eviction Notice Revealed Why Her Father Had Really Vanished.
“You’re mafia, aren’t you?”
The question was spoken in the clear, fearless voice of an eight-year-old girl.
And somehow, every conversation inside Romano’s Diner died at once.
Forks stopped halfway to mouths.
The waitress behind the counter froze with the coffeepot tilted in her hand.
Two men sitting near the entrance abruptly looked toward the corner booth.
Vincent Romano slowly raised his eyes from his espresso.
The girl standing beside his table wore a faded red coat, scuffed sneakers, and a purple backpack decorated with silver stars.
In both hands, she clutched a large glass jar packed with coins.
Behind Vincent, his bodyguards—Marco and Sal—immediately shifted forward.
The girl noticed them.
She didn’t move.
Vincent set down his cup.
“What makes you think I’m mafia?”
“My mom says I shouldn’t repeat things I hear adults say.”
“That sounds like good advice.”
She considered this.
“Mrs.
Palmer downstairs says you’re mafia.”
Someone near the counter coughed violently into his napkin.
Vincent almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the girl lifted the jar.
“Can you buy my mom a house?”
That wiped away the smile.
Vincent Romano had spent forty-two years learning that everyone wanted something.
Money.
Influence.
Protection.
Revenge.
Mercy.
Nobody had ever approached him carrying a jar of nickels and quarters.
“I have money,” the girl explained.
She placed the jar on the table with both hands.
Coins rattled against glass.
Vincent stared at it.
“How much?”
“Forty-seven dollars and eighty-three cents.”
Marco turned his face away.
Vincent looked at the girl.
“What’s your name?”
“Emily Bennett.”
“And why does your mother need a house?”
Emily’s bravery flickered.
She rubbed one sneaker against the other.
“Mom says we have to leave our apartment Friday.”
Vincent’s expression hardened slightly.
“Why?”
“The building man says she didn’t pay enough.”
“Rent?”
Emily nodded.
Then, quieter:
“She cries when she thinks I’m asleep.”
Vincent’s fingers stopped against his coffee cup.
“But I hear her.”
The diner suddenly felt much colder.
“I started saving,” Emily continued.
“Birthday money.
Money Grandma gave me before she died.
Pennies I find.
And I stopped getting ice cream after school.”
“For how long?”
“Seven months.”
Vincent stared at her.
Seven months.
A child had been denying herself ice cream while grown men crossed oceans carrying suitcases of cash into Vincent’s offices.
“For a house?”
Emily nodded solemnly.
“I don’t need a big one.
Mom says two bedrooms are expensive, so maybe one bedroom is okay.
I can sleep on the couch.”
Something old and painful twisted beneath Vincent’s ribs.
He stood.
Marco straightened.
“Boss?”
Vincent reached for his coat.
“Emily.”
May you like
She looked up.
“Take me to your mother.”
