The Phone in the Silver Clutch
Chapter 02 - The Phone in the Silver Clutch
Sofia Bellandi did not hand over her phone.
That was how I knew the evening had turned from embarrassing to dangerous.
A woman like Sofia understood theater. She knew when to laugh, when to sigh, when to look wounded before anyone accused her. If the phone had been harmless, she would have dropped it into Dante’s palm with bored contempt and made the room feel vulgar for doubting her.
Instead, she kept her hand at her side.
“Dante,” she said softly, “not here.”
Not a denial.
A request for privacy.
Several guests pretended not to lean closer.
Dante’s hand stayed open.
“Your phone.”
“You are humiliating me in front of everyone.”
“You are making that choice.”
The coldness in his voice did something to the room. Men who had been drinking too freely set down their glasses. A senator’s wife shifted behind her husband. The jazz trio had stopped entirely now; the violinist stood frozen with his bow half raised.
Sofia’s face tightened.
Marco picked up the silver clutch and opened it.
Inside were lipstick, a compact mirror, a folded tissue, and a phone in a slim pearl case.
He handed it to Dante.
Sofia smiled in a way that made my stomach hurt.
“You don’t know my passcode.”
Dante held the phone toward her.
“Unlock it.”
“No.”
The word landed sharply.
A guest gasped, then covered it with a cough.
Dante stepped closer. “Sofia.”
“You want to play trial in your living room?” she said. “Fine. Ask your little coat girl why she was studying your belongings closely enough to notice thread.”
Every eye turned to me.
I felt heat climb my throat.
Sofia had found the easiest door and kicked it open. I was staff. I was temporary. I was poor enough to be suspicious and invisible enough to be blamed.
“My mother was a tailor,” I said again.
“She says.” Sofia’s eyes glittered. “Do we know who hired her tonight? Do we know where she comes from? Do we know why she just happened to find a tracking device in your coat before you left for the garage?”
For a moment, I thought Dante might look at me differently.
He did.
But not with suspicion.
With calculation.
“What agency?” he asked me.
“Eventure Staffing.”
“Who booked her?” he asked Marco.
Marco’s phone was already in his hand. “Checking.”
Sofia laughed softly. “Wonderful. Now we’re interrogating waitstaff.”
I had never wanted to disappear more in my life.
Then Dante looked at me.
“Nora, did you know who owned this penthouse before tonight?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you know which coat was mine before I gave it to you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone tell you to inspect it?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll continue.”
Sofia’s smile thinned.
Marco looked up from his phone.
“Boss.”
One word. Enough.
Dante did not turn. “Say it.”
“Eventure received a last-minute request to add one coat-check worker to tonight’s staff list.”
Sofia folded her arms. “Large party. That’s normal.”
Marco continued. “The request came from Ms. Bellandi’s assistant.”
The penthouse went perfectly still.
Sofia’s face did not move.
Only her throat did, a small swallow beneath diamonds.
“My assistant handles household logistics.”
“She requested me?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Marco looked at me, then at Dante.
“By name.”
That hit me harder than the tracker.
I had worked one Bellandi event two months earlier at a hotel ballroom. Sofia had not spoken to me then. I had repaired a split seam on her wrap because one of the servers had stepped on it, and she had tossed me a hundred-dollar bill as if feeding a bird.
I thought she had forgotten me.
She had remembered exactly enough.
Dante’s eyes returned to Sofia.
“Why did you request her?”
“I didn’t.”
“Your assistant did.”
“Then ask my assistant.”
“I will.”
Sofia’s expression flickered.
There it was again.
Fear.
Not of being disliked. Not of losing face. A deeper fear, old and hidden beneath perfume.
Dante saw it too.
“Unlock the phone,” he said.
Sofia shook her head once.
“No.”
Marco stepped forward.
“Ms. Bellandi.”
She lifted her chin. “Touch me and every newspaper in New York will know Dante Russo assaulted his fiancée because a coat girl made a scene.”
The word fiancée hung there like a knife she had polished herself.
Dante took the phone from Marco.
Then he surprised everyone.
He gave it back to Sofia.
Her relief was immediate and visible.
Again, too soon.
“Call your assistant,” Dante said.
Sofia stared at him.
“Now.”
For the first time that night, she looked toward the door.
Not at the guests.
Not at Marco.
At the private hallway leading deeper into the penthouse.
Dante noticed.
“Who else is here?”
“No one.”
His gaze did not move from her face.
“Marco.”
Marco nodded to two men near the windows. They slipped away without sound.
Sofia reached for the phone with fingers that were not quite steady. She unlocked it using her face, but Dante’s hand closed over her wrist before she could angle the screen away.
The home screen lit up.
For one second, I saw the photo behind her apps.
Not a glamorous portrait.
Not Dante.
A little boy with dark hair sitting on a sailboat, grinning through missing teeth.
Sofia saw me looking and went white.
Dante saw the photo too.
His expression shifted.
“Who is that?”
Sofia locked the screen.
“No one.”
Dante’s voice lowered. “That child is not no one.”
Her eyes shone suddenly, and it startled me so much I forgot to be afraid of her.
Then Marco’s earpiece crackled.
He listened.
His face changed.
“Boss,” he said. “There’s someone in your study.”
Dante looked toward the hallway.
Sofia whispered, “Don’t go in there.”
Everyone heard her.
Dante did not move.
“Why not?”
May you like
Her composure finally cracked.
“Because if you open that door,” she said, “they’ll know the tracker failed.”
