Chapter 3 Amber
AMBER
The next day, I know something’s wrong the second I walk in.
Notte Bianca never feels empty before the rush. There’s always at least one familiar voice, one laugh from the kitchen, one of the girls complaining about sore feet or a bad tipper.
Tonight, there’s none of that.
I clock in and scan the room. The restaurant is clean. Too clean. No Rose perched on her stool. No Savannah drifting in and out of the kitchen. No Erin slipping through the space between tables like she owns it.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
Izzy looks up from the host stand. Her smile is automatic, but it doesn’t quite stick. “They called in sick.”
I stare at her. “All of them?”
She shrugs. “Guess so. Probably a virus making the rounds.”
I don’t believe it for a second.
“When have you ever seen Erin take a day off?” I ask. “Or Savannah? Or Rose?”
Izzy presses her lips together. I can see the doubt catch up to her in real time. “I know,” she says quietly. She pauses for a minute, then mouths, “It’s strange.”
That’s one word for it.
She glances toward the dining room, then back at me. “I saw Erin last night,” she says. “After closing.”
My stomach tightens. “And?”
“She was being carried out. Mr. Lucchese had her in his arms.”
“What?”
“She fainted,” Izzy says. “Or something like that. She looked out of it.”
That doesn’t help. It makes everything worse.
“And Savannah?” I ask.
Izzy swallows. “I found Gerard in the alley.”
My pulse spikes. “Found him, how?” What’s going on with everyone?
“Bleeding,” she says. “Pretty bad. He kept ranting. About Savannah. About how she doesn’t know her place.”
Cold washes through me. “You don’t think he hurt her, do you?”
Izzy doesn’t answer right away. When she finally does, her voice is low. “I think he tried.”
I feel lightheaded. “And?”
“And someone scarier showed up.”
That lands hard.
I look around the restaurant again. At the empty spaces where my friends should be. At the bar Rose should be sitting at. At the floor Erin should be gliding across like nothing can touch her.
“Where is Gerard now?” I ask.
“Not here,” Izzy says. “Donald said he needed stitches. He might show up later in the week, but frankly, I hope he fucks all the way off after this. Even if it means I have to juggle three jobs while we train replacements.”
I try to breathe through it.
Erin and Savannah, at least, seem to be accounted for. Erin carried out by Lucchese himself. Savannah protected by someone scary enough to put Gerard in the hospital. Shining knights, Izzy called them. I don’t love the phrasing, but the meaning lands.
They’re not alone.
That should help.
It doesn’t.
Because Rose doesn’t fit into that picture.
I keep seeing her face from last night. The tightness around her mouth. The shadows under her eyes. The way she kept pretending she wasn’t tired, wasn’t scared, wasn’t holding herself together with thread and stubbornness.
I hear her voice from a few weeks ago, low and careful, like she was testing the words before letting them exist.
I feel like I’m being followed.
The memory slides sideways, turning into another one I don’t want.
Coral, coming home from track practice with that same look. Wired. Taut. Like she hadn’t slept properly in days. Like she was bracing for something she didn’t want to name.
I swallow.
“Did Rose call in sick too?” I ask.
Izzy shakes her head. “She texted.”
My chest tightens. “But did you hear her voice?”
Izzy’s silence is answer enough.
“No,” she says finally.
That’s when I start calling.
And texting.
And calling again.
I keep my phone tucked under the bar, screen lighting up over and over as I work. No answer. No read receipts. Nothing. My hands shake just enough that I catch myself measuring wrong more than once. Too much ice. Too little. I mix a drink I’ve made a thousand times backwards and have to dump it.
Izzy notices. She doesn’t say anything. She just steps in when she can, corrects things quietly, takes a table off my hands without making a fuss.
We’re so short-staffed it’s unreal.
Donald called in backups, but they’re kids. Barely out of training. They don’t know how Notte Bianca works. They cannot comprehend the pacing, the regulars, the little things that matter. As the day progresses, orders pile up, food comes out slow and complaints start trickling in.
The smart thing would’ve been to close, but Donald wouldn’t hear of it.
“Reservations are booked,” he’d said earlier, wringing his hands. “We can’t just cancel. That’s money straight out of my pockets.”
Ridiculous. He’d rather ruin the restaurant’s reputation with mediocre food and service than lose one night’s profit. Piece of shit.
Impulsively, I dial Rose’s number, and again, it goes unanswered. I set my phone down harder than I mean to and look toward the door, my stomach twisting.
Rose didn’t say goodbye.
And I can’t shake the feeling that this time, I should’ve stopped her.
My fingers drift to the bracelet on my wrist without me thinking about it. Coral beads. Amber beads. Cool against my skin. I press my thumb into them until it almost hurts.
Across the room, the day-old flowers are being swapped out. Rose’s colleague from the flower shop moves carefully, efficiently, like this is just another shift. Fresh stems. Clean water. No sign anything is wrong.
Everything looks normal.
Nothing is.
I keep texting Rose every second I get free, but between the understaffing situation and the full house we're having, I don't get many. Still, I've blown up her phone enough that if she was going to reply, she would have by now. The thought stabs right between my ribs.
Then I see them.
The mafia table is occupied tonight—but only halfway.
Giovanni is there. So is Mr. Neri. Quiet. Still. Exactly where they always sit.
Lucchese and Romano are missing. That part I understand. According to Izzy’s stories, they’re busy tending to Erin and Savannah, playing heroes in expensive suits. They'd left early last night too.
But Moretti?
He’s not there either.
Something cold slides down my spine.
I think of every time I caught him watching Rose. Not openly. Not enough to make a scene. Just… lingering. Like he was cataloging her. Like he knew something about her she didn’t.
The memory twists, reshapes itself into another one.
A lamppost. A red dress shirt. A man who was always there when Coral came home, until one day she didn’t.
My grip tightens on the bar.
If I could, I’d march straight over there and demand answers. Ask Giovanni what he’s done. What they’ve done. Ask him where my friend is.
But I can’t.
They’re big clients. Untouchable. If I make waves, Donald fires me. No discussion. No second chances.
And I can’t afford that.
I have two parents in a private facility. Steep bills. Monthly statements that don’t care about fear or justice or what feels right. They just want to be paid so my parents stay fed and medicated and safe.
The thought twists me in half.
But then, there’s Rose who has no one else.
I know that. I’ve always known it. She never talks about her past, but it leaks out in the way she flinches at certain questions. I know she reinvented herself here and never looks back. Whatever she ran from, she ran hard.
If anyone is going to look for her, it has to be me.
I glare at the table all night. Giovanni doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care. Either way, I don’t look away.
By the time we close, my jaw aches from how tightly I’ve been clenching it.
When I step outside, the air is cold and sharp. The street has thinned out, the city slipping into that quieter hour.
And there he is.
Giovanni.
Standing exactly where Moretti stood the night before. Across the road. Like nothing has changed.
Something in me snaps.
I cross the street before I can talk myself out of it, heart hammering, anger and fear tangling together until I can’t tell which one is pushing me forward.
I stop right in front of him.
“What have you done with my friend?”