Harper spent three days convincing herself she would not go.
By Sunday morning, she had developed twelve separate reasons.
By noon, she had twenty.
At four thirty, she was standing in her tiny Queens apartment wearing the only nice dress she owned.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered at her reflection.
The dress was navy blue and modest, purchased two years earlier for a coworker’s wedding. Harper had almost forgotten it existed.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She stared at it.
A message appeared.
Roman. My mother wants to know if you are still coming.
Harper typed:
I’m considering faking my death.
She deleted it.
Then she typed:
Yes.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Good. She has been cooking since noon. Save yourself and pretend everything tastes excellent.
Harper blinked.
Was Roman Moretti joking?
Another message arrived.
That was a joke. Mostly.
Harper smiled despite herself.
At six minutes before six, a black sedan stopped outside her building.
Harper went downstairs and found the same bodyguard from the restaurant waiting beside it.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Mr. Moretti sent transportation.”
“I know how to use the subway.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Does anyone ever tell him no?”
The bodyguard considered.
“Not repeatedly.”
Harper sighed and climbed inside.
The Moretti residence was not what she expected.
She imagined an enormous fortress decorated in black marble and guarded by men holding automatic weapons.
There were guards.
There was also a fortress-like gate.
But beyond it stood a beautiful old brick home in Riverdale overlooking the Hudson, surrounded by maple trees beginning to turn gold.
Beatatrice opened the door before the driver could ring.
Her face brightened.
You came!
Harper smiled and immediately began signing.
I said I would.
Beatatrice hugged her.
Roman appeared behind his mother.
Unlike the restaurant, he wasn’t wearing a suit.
Dark pants.
White dress shirt.
Sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Harper noticed a thin scar running near one wrist.
Roman noticed her looking.
She quickly raised her eyes.
“Welcome.”
“Thanks.”
Beatatrice gestured impatiently.
Come. Food.
Roman sighed.
“She’s been threatening everyone with dinner for four hours.”
Harper interpreted.
Beatatrice swatted his shoulder.
The tension disappeared almost immediately.
That surprised Harper.
At Laura, Roman seemed constructed entirely from danger.
Here, inside his mother’s home, pieces of another man appeared.
He checked whether Beatatrice’s tea was hot enough.
He moved a chair before she could reach it.
When she turned away, he stole a roasted potato from a platter.
Beatatrice caught him.
She slapped his hand with a wooden spoon.
Harper laughed.
Roman looked offended.
“She has no respect for authority.”
Beatatrice signed.
Not yours.
Harper translated.
Roman sighed.
Dinner was loud even though one of its participants could not hear.
Three of Roman’s men ate at a separate table in the kitchen. An older housekeeper named Rosa came and went while arguing with Roman about whether he ate enough vegetables.
Harper interpreted whenever Beatatrice needed her.
Eventually Beatatrice began telling stories.
Embarrassing stories.
Roman realized too late.
“What is she telling you?”
Harper struggled not to laugh.
“That when you were nine, you slept with a baseball bat because you thought there was a monster in your closet.”
Roman slowly turned to his mother.
“That story dies tonight.”
Beatatrice grinned.
Then she signed another.
Harper burst out laughing.
“No.”
Roman narrowed his eyes.
“What?”
“I promised her confidentiality.”
“It’s my house.”
“Actually,” Beatatrice spoke aloud, carefully, “mine.”
Roman looked betrayed.
Harper laughed harder.
It felt strange.
Good strange.
For years, laughter had usually appeared at work among exhausted coworkers complaining about customers.
This was different.
It felt like family.
That frightened Harper enough that she became quiet.
Beatatrice noticed.
She waited until Roman stepped away to answer a phone call.
Then she signed.
He scares people.
Harper hesitated.
Sometimes.
He scares you?
Harper looked toward Roman.
He stood near the window, speaking quietly into his phone.
“I don’t know him.”
Beatatrice nodded.
Good answer.
Then she signed more slowly.
My son has done things I wish he had not done.
Harper studied her.
Beatatrice continued.
He became hard because he believed hard men survive.
“And do they?”
Beatatrice’s face became sad.
Sometimes.
She touched Harper’s hand.
But surviving is not the same as living.
Harper felt those words deeper than Beatatrice could have known.
Roman returned.
His eyes moved between them.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Harper said.
“That usually means something.”
Beatatrice smiled innocently.
Roman clearly distrusted that smile.
After dinner, Beatatrice showed Harper photographs.
Roman as a baby.
Roman missing two front teeth.
Roman at sixteen, glaring at the camera beside his late father.
Roman looked different in that picture.
Angrier.
Younger.
Already carrying something too heavy.
Harper pointed at Roman’s father.
“Vittorio?”
Beatatrice nodded.
“He died?”
Roman answered from behind her.
“Fifteen years ago.”
Harper turned.
“I’m sorry.”
Roman shrugged slightly.
“He wasn’t a good man.”
Beatatrice looked down.
Harper felt she had stepped into dangerous emotional territory.
Roman picked up the photograph.
“My father believed fear was the only reliable currency. He taught me that before I learned long division.”
Harper said nothing.
“He also believed my mother’s deafness embarrassed him.”
Beatatrice’s face tightened.
Roman continued.
“He stopped taking her to business dinners. Parties. Charity events. Anywhere strangers might notice.”
Harper glanced toward Beatatrice.
“That’s awful.”
“Yes.”
Roman set down the picture.
“When I inherited everything, I promised myself she would never be hidden again.”
His expression darkened.
“And then Friday happened.”
Harper understood.
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“I brought her somewhere people were afraid of me and somehow nobody had bothered learning how to accommodate her.”
“You can’t control everyone.”
Roman looked at her.
“I’m used to trying.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
A pause.
Then Roman gave the faintest smile.
“It is.”
Later, Beatatrice excused herself upstairs.
She hugged Harper again before leaving.
When she disappeared, silence settled over the living room.
Harper became acutely aware that she was alone with Roman Moretti.
He poured coffee.
“Do you want one?”
“Sure.”
“No cream. One sugar?”
Harper frowned.
“How did you know?”
“You drank coffee during dessert.”
“You watch people a lot.”
“My survival depends on it.”
He handed her the cup.
Harper took it carefully.
“You said your brother taught you sign language.”
“Technically I taught myself.”
“For him.”
“Yes.”
“Why stop after he died?”
The question was too personal.
Harper nearly refused.
Instead she stared into the coffee.
“Because it hurt.”
Roman waited.
“Every sign reminded me of him. Every deaf kid on the subway reminded me of him. I volunteered at a community center for deaf children while Leo was alive. After he died, I stopped going.”
“You loved him.”
“More than anybody.”
Roman nodded.
“I understand that.”
Harper looked upstairs.
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
A long silence followed.
Roman sat across from her.
There was no bodyguard nearby.
No suit jacket.
No reputation filling the room.
Just a man who loved his mother.
“You should learn,” Harper said.
His brow furrowed.
“What?”
“Sign language.”
Roman’s expression closed.
“I know some.”
“Not enough.”
His eyes sharpened.
Most people would have retreated.
Harper didn’t.
“She spends every day translating herself into your world. Reading lips. Speaking when she can’t hear her own voice. Writing things down. Watching faces. Guessing.”
Roman said nothing.
“You could meet her halfway.”
His jaw tightened.
“You think I haven’t tried?”
“I think maybe you stopped when it got difficult.”
The room became dangerously quiet.
Then Roman looked away.
Harper thought she had finally gone too far.
He stared toward the stairs.
“My father wouldn’t allow it.”
Harper’s anger disappeared.
“What?”
“When I was young, my mother started teaching me. My father stopped her.”
Roman’s voice was flat.
“He said his son wouldn’t wave his hands around like a fool.”
Harper felt sick.
“After he died, I was twenty-one. I was running businesses I barely understood and trying not to get killed by men who thought they could take everything from me.”
He flexed one hand.
“I kept telling myself I would learn later.”
“And later became fifteen years.”
Roman nodded.
There was no defensiveness left.
Only regret.
Harper put down her coffee.
“I can teach you.”
Roman looked at her.
She surprised herself as much as she surprised him.
“I mean—not professionally. You could hire the best teacher in New York.”
“I could.”
“But your mother trusts me.”
“She does.”
“And you clearly need help.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Careful.”
Harper smiled.
“First lesson. How do you sign sorry?”
Roman stared.
“You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
He set down his cup.
“All right.”
Harper demonstrated.
His first attempt was stiff.
“Relax your shoulder.”
“I am relaxed.”
“No. You look like you’re preparing for combat.”
“That is relaxed.”
Harper laughed.
“Again.”
He tried.
Better.
“Good.”
For the next thirty minutes, she taught him simple phrases.
Good morning.
Are you hungry?
Do you need anything?
I’m listening.
Then Harper taught him the one that mattered most.
I love you.
Roman knew part of it already.
But he had been forming one motion incorrectly.
Harper adjusted his hand.
Her fingers touched his.
Both of them stopped.
It was nothing.
A tiny contact.
Yet Harper immediately felt something move through her.
Roman looked at her hand.
Then into her eyes.
Neither spoke.
Harper pulled back first.
“That’s correct now.”
Roman nodded.
Footsteps sounded upstairs.
Beatatrice returned.
Roman stood.
His mother approached.
He looked suddenly uncertain.
Then he raised his hands.
I love you.
Beatatrice stopped.
The color drained from her face.
Roman swallowed.
His hands moved again.
I should have learned sooner.
Beatatrice’s lips parted.
Tears appeared almost instantly.
Harper quietly stepped away.
This moment belonged to them.
Beatatrice touched her son’s face.
Then she signed.
You are learning now.
Roman bowed his head.
His mother wrapped her arms around him.
The feared Roman Moretti held her tightly.
Over Beatatrice’s shoulder, his eyes found Harper.
No threat.
No suspicion.
Only gratitude.
Harper looked away because the emotion in his face was almost too intimate to witness.
Ten minutes later, when she prepared to leave, Roman walked her outside.
The night had turned cold.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
“I wanted to.”
“That makes less sense.”
“Why?”
“Most people who enter my life want something.”
Harper looked at him.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Well, I want something.”
Roman’s expression changed.
He waited.
Harper pointed through the window toward Beatatrice.
“Don’t quit.”
His face softened.
“The lessons?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
She stepped toward the waiting car.
“Harper.”
She turned.
Roman stood beneath the porch light.
“What?”
“My mother will expect another dinner.”
“I suspected that.”
“And the lessons.”
“You need them.”
His mouth curved slightly.
“Thursday?”
Harper hesitated.
This was exactly how complicated things began.
One dinner.
One lesson.
One dangerous man looking at her as if she were becoming something he wanted to understand.
She should have said no.
Instead she said:
“Thursday.”
And Roman Moretti smiled.