PART 2 — THE MAN EVERYONE FEARED KNEW MY NAME
For one second, I thought there had to be another Anthony Russo.
Another man with the same name.
Another reason the city councilman had stepped backward.
Another explanation for why Louise Carter had suddenly gone completely still beside me.
But then Ryan—Anthony—looked across the crowded neighborhood center and found me immediately.
And smiled.
Not the restrained, careful smile he gave everyone else.
The same crooked smile from the restaurant.
The same one he used when I accused him of fearing calamari.
My stomach dropped.
“Emma,” Louise whispered.
I could barely hear her over the applause.
“What?”
“You know Anthony Russo?”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“He just smiled at you.”
“I know Ryan.”
Louise stared harder.
“That is Anthony Russo.”
“I’m getting that impression.”
Around us, people were moving toward him.
Business owners.
Politicians.
Men I recognized from charity boards.
People who usually expected rooms to rearrange themselves around them.
Now they were rearranging themselves around him.
Anthony shook hands politely.
Never hurried.
Never loud.
He wore a dark charcoal suit, white shirt, no tie.
Nothing flashy.
That somehow made it worse.
A man beside me murmured, “He paid for the roof.”
Another replied, “And the kitchen renovation.”
“Anonymous donations?”
The first man gave him a look.
“You think Anthony Russo needs anonymity?”
I turned back toward the entrance.
Anthony had reached Louise.
He opened his arms.
She hugged him.
Actually hugged him.
“You’re late,” she said.
Everyone nearby looked terrified that she had said it.
Anthony smiled.
“You told me seven.”
“I told you six-thirty.”
“You said doors at six-thirty.”
“You should know I expect everyone early.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Louise slapped his arm lightly.
My brain refused to cooperate.
The most feared man in Rochester was being scolded by a seventy-four-year-old woman over punctuality.
Then Louise pointed toward the ceiling.
“You said you’d fix that light.”
“I sent someone Tuesday.”
“It flickers.”
“I’ll send someone competent.”
“You said that last time.”
Anthony sighed.
“Louise, I own the company.”
“That doesn’t make you competent.”
A few people laughed nervously.
Anthony laughed genuinely.
Then his eyes found me again.
Louise noticed.
Of course she did.
Louise noticed when someone changed the brand of sugar packets in the kitchen.
“You two know each other?”
Anthony started walking toward me.
I wished I could disappear inside the stack of fundraiser programs.
“Apparently not as well as I thought,” I said.
He stopped in front of me.
His expression changed.
The easy smile faded.
“Emma.”
“Ryan.”
The men behind him exchanged glances.
One actually looked away.
Anthony exhaled.
“I can explain.”
“That sentence has never improved anything.”
Louise looked between us.
“What is happening?”
I turned to her.
“Did you know his name is Ryan?”
Anthony rubbed a hand over his jaw.
Louise blinked.
Then she looked at him.
“You told this girl your name was Ryan?”
“It’s my middle name.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s technically true.”
Louise smacked his arm again.
“Anthony.”
He looked almost embarrassed.
I should have found that funny.
Instead, humiliation spread through me.
Three weeks of texts.
Three weeks of coffee.
Two dinners.
One afternoon walking along the river.
Dozens of conversations.
And not once had he told me the truth.
I picked up my box of leftover programs.
“Emma.”
“I have work.”
“You already delivered everything.”
“Then I have imaginary work.”
I walked toward the side hallway.
Anthony followed.
Of course he did.
Behind us, the entire fundraiser pretended not to watch.
“Emma.”
I kept moving.
“Please.”
That stopped me.
Not because he sounded threatening.
Because he didn’t.
Anthony Russo—the man people crossed streets to avoid—sounded nervous.
I turned.
“Who are you?”
“You know who I am.”
“No.
Apparently, everyone else knows who you are.”
He glanced toward the main room.
“I didn’t lie about everything.”
“Lighting and signage?”
“I own Russo Electrical and Sign.”
“And gambling?”
His expression tightened.
“Emma.”
“Freight?”
“Several freight companies.”
“Construction?”
“Yes.”
“Private security?”
“Yes.”
“Mafia?”
The hallway went quiet.
Even though nobody was near us, the word felt too loud.
Anthony looked at me for a long moment.
Finally, he said, “People call me a lot of things.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I can give you here.”
I laughed once.
“Right.”
I shifted the box in my arms.
“What else did you lie about?”
“My name was incomplete.”
“Incomplete?”
“Anthony Ryan Russo.”
“You introduced yourself as Ryan.”
“Yes.”
“That’s called lying.”
“I know.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
For the first time since I had met him, he looked unsure.
“Because you didn’t know who I was.”
“That usually happens when strangers meet.”
“You treated me normally.”
“And that terrified you?”
“It surprised me.”
He looked toward the fundraiser.
“When people hear Russo, they decide what they want from me before I finish saying hello.”
“And what did I want?”
“Chowder.”
Despite myself, I nearly smiled.
I hated that.
Anthony saw it.
His expression softened.
“You made fun of my appetizer choices.”
“You deserved it.”
“You told me my shoes looked expensive but emotionally unavailable.”
“They did.”
He smiled.
Then I remembered I was angry.
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.”
“You had three weeks to tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Every day you waited made it worse.”
“Yes.”
I hated how easily he admitted it.
No excuse.
No argument.
Just yes.
I lowered my voice.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Tonight.”
I looked toward the main room.
“At a fundraiser with two hundred witnesses?”
“No.”
He paused.
“I came here because Louise asked me to announce something.
I didn’t know your shop printed the programs.”
That sounded believable.
Which annoyed me even more.
“What announcement?”
Anthony looked toward the ceiling.
“The marquee.”
I remembered the dark sign outside.
“You fixed it?”
“Not exactly.”
Louise appeared at the end of the hallway.
“He paid for the entire restoration.”
Anthony closed his eyes.
“Louise.”
“What?”
“I was telling her.”
“No, you were standing in a hallway looking guilty.”
She came closer.
“Emma, this idiot has been paying half the center’s expenses for eleven years.”
Anthony muttered, “Please stop helping.”
Louise ignored him.
“Heat in winter.
Air-conditioning.
Food pantry deliveries.
The new van.”
I stared at him.
He looked uncomfortable.
“You never told anyone?”
“Louise tells everyone.”
“I tell people who need to know.”
“You tell strangers.”
“You are not a stranger.”
She looked at me.
Then at Anthony.
Then something clicked in her expression.
“Oh.”
Anthony immediately said, “No.”
Louise smiled.
“Oh.”
“Louise.”
She walked away.
“I suddenly need to check the punch.”
Anthony watched her go.
“She’s going to tell everyone we’re engaged.”
“We’ve had dinner twice.”
“That won’t slow her down.”
I almost laughed again.
Then applause erupted inside the main room.
Louise had apparently resumed the event.
Anthony looked at me.
“I have to speak.”
“Go.”
“Will you stay?”
I should have said no.
Instead, I asked, “Why?”
“Because I’d like five minutes after.”
I stared at him.
“You get five.”
“Thank you.”
He returned to the crowd.
I stayed near the hallway.
Mostly because leaving would have required walking through two hundred people who now clearly knew something had happened between us.
Anthony stepped behind the microphone.
No notes.
No dramatic introduction.
He thanked volunteers.
He thanked Louise.
Then he spoke about the center.
“My mother came here when she was nineteen.”
The room quieted.
“She had two children, no money, and a husband who disappeared for weeks at a time.”
I leaned against the wall.
Anthony’s voice changed.
“She learned bookkeeping here.
She learned English here.
Louise’s predecessor helped her get a job.”
He looked around the room.
“People sometimes ask why I keep supporting Riverside.”
A small smile.
“I don’t think I’m supporting Riverside.”
He looked toward Louise.
“I think I’m paying an old debt.”
The room applauded.
I watched him differently.
Not trustingly.
Not yet.
But differently.
Then he announced the marquee renovation.
A local electrical crew had already finished most of the work.
The sign outside would be illuminated that evening for the first time in nine years.
People cheered.
Anthony stepped away from the microphone.
That was when a man near the back shouted, “Ask him whose money paid for it!”
The room went silent.
Anthony stopped.
A stocky man in a brown jacket stood beside the doors.
I recognized him vaguely.
Martin Keane.
Owner of several bars downtown.
He looked angry.
“Everybody likes charity money,” Martin said.
“Nobody asks where it comes from.”
Anthony’s men moved.
He lifted one hand.
They stopped immediately.
Anthony looked at Martin.
“This isn’t the place.”
Martin laughed.
“Of course not.”
Louise stepped forward.
“It is absolutely not.”
Martin ignored her.
“You come in here pretending you’re some civic hero.”
Anthony’s expression remained calm.
“Martin.”
“What?”
“Leave.”
One word.
Not loud.
But something in the room shifted.
Martin’s face tightened.
“You don’t own every room in Rochester.”
“No.”
Anthony looked around.
“Louise owns this one.”
Several people laughed.
Martin did not.
He turned toward me.
That happened so fast I did not understand why.
Then he smiled.
“You the new girl?”
Anthony’s entire posture changed.
Not much.
But enough.
“Martin.”
This time his voice was colder.
Martin looked amused.
“What?
Everybody’s curious.”
Anthony walked toward him.
Slowly.
“You came here angry with me.”
Martin’s smile faded.
“Keep it with me.”
The warning was unmistakable.
I felt cold.
This was the man everyone else knew.
Not Ryan.
Not the man who pushed pie toward me.
Anthony Russo.
Controlled.
Quiet.
Dangerous enough that he never needed to raise his voice.
Martin looked around.
Then backed toward the door.
“Enjoy your fundraiser.”
He left.
The room breathed again.
Anthony said something quietly to one of his men.
Then he looked toward me.
I already knew our five-minute conversation was going to be shorter.
I walked outside.
The evening air felt cooler than it should have.
The restored marquee stood dark above the entrance, waiting for the ceremonial switch.
I heard the door open.
Anthony joined me.
“You’re leaving.”
“Yes.”
“I understand.”
I looked at him.
“Do you?”
“Probably not.”
“That man was afraid of you.”
“Yes.”
“You expected him to be.”
Anthony said nothing.
“That’s not normal.”
“No.”
I hugged my arms.
“Is any of it true?”
“What?”
“The stories.”
He looked toward the parking lot.
“Some.”
My stomach tightened.
“Which?”
“I’m not discussing criminal allegations with you on a sidewalk.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That sounds very much like something a criminal defense attorney would recommend.”
“It is.”
“You have one?”
“Several.”
I stared at him.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure.”
He took a step back.
Giving me space.
That surprised me.
“Emma, I should have told you my name.”
“Yes.”
“I should have told you before the second dinner.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t because I liked how you looked at me.”
That silenced me.
He continued.
“You didn’t look nervous.”
His voice became quieter.
“You didn’t look impressed.”
“That is almost insulting.”
“It’s the nicest thing anyone has done for me in years.”
Something shifted painfully inside my chest.
I hated that too.
“You don’t get to turn dishonesty into something romantic.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
“I’m telling you why.
Not asking you to excuse it.”
I looked away.
Cars moved along the street.
Across the road, a couple walked past without noticing us.
I wondered what they saw.
A woman arguing with a man in an expensive suit.
Nothing unusual.
They had no idea.
“I don’t know you,” I said.
Anthony nodded.
“You know part of me.”
“That might be worse.”
“Maybe.”
I looked at him.
“You said you make sure things stay lit.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“That part was true.”
“How much else was?”
“My mother.”
“The therapist?”
“Yes.”
“You actually have a therapist?”
“Unfortunately.”
I nearly laughed.
I stopped myself.
“The dog photos?”
“My sister’s dog.”
“You told me it was your neighbor’s.”
“My sister lives next door.”
“That is dangerously technical.”
“I warned you I was thorough.”
I shook my head.
Then the marquee switched on behind us.
Warm gold light spilled across the sidewalk.
RIVERSIDE NEIGHBORHOOD CENTER.
People inside cheered.
I turned.
The old sign looked beautiful.
Anthony watched me rather than the sign.
“You did that.”
“My company did.”
“You paid for it.”
“Yes.”
“Why hide good things?”
His answer came quickly.
“Because good things become advertisements if you announce them.”
For the first time that evening, I believed him without suspicion.
Then a black sedan pulled into the parking lot.
One of Anthony’s men came outside.
He leaned close and whispered something.
Anthony’s face changed.
“What?”
“Sir, you need to come.”
Anthony glanced at me.
“What happened?”
The man hesitated.
Anthony said, “She can hear it.”
“There was an incident at Russo Freight.”
“What kind?”
“A fire.”
Anthony went still.
“Anyone hurt?”
“No confirmed injuries.”
“Cause?”
“Unknown.”
The man looked at me.
Then back at Anthony.
“But Keane was seen nearby earlier.”
Martin.
The man from the fundraiser.
Anthony’s jaw tightened.
He looked at me.
“I have to go.”
“Obviously.”
He started toward the car.
Then stopped.
“Emma.”
“What?”
“Go home.”
Something about his tone irritated me immediately.
“I was already planning to.”
“Don’t stop at the shop.”
“Why?”
“Just tonight.”
There it was.
That voice.
The one that expected obedience.
I took a step toward him.
“You don’t get to order me around.”
He looked frustrated.
“I know.”
“Then explain.”
Anthony glanced at his man.
Then back at me.
“Martin knows your name.”
A cold sensation moved through me.
“So?”
“He shouldn’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“I never told him.”
The parking lot suddenly seemed too dark.
Anthony continued.
“He looked directly at you in there.”
“Yes.”
“He knew you were connected to me.”
“Everybody in that room could tell.”
“No.”
His voice was firm.
“He knew before he arrived.”
My skin prickled.
“How?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
I stared at him.
“You think somebody has been watching me?”
“I think someone has been watching me.”
“That isn’t better.”
“No.”
He opened the sedan door.
“Please go home.”
“Anthony.”
He froze.
It was the first time I had called him that.
He looked at me.
“I’m not agreeing to whatever this is.”
“What?”
“This idea that you get to decide what information I can handle.”
He said nothing.
“If something involves me, you tell me.”
His expression changed.
Maybe because he heard the accusation beneath it.
You already decided for me once.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He reached into his jacket.
For one terrifying second, I thought he was reaching for a weapon.
Instead, he pulled out a business card.
Blank except for a phone number.
“Call this if anything feels wrong.”
I stared at it.
“You carry mysterious emergency cards?”
“It’s my security office.”
“That is not less weird.”
“I know.”
I took it anyway.
Anthony left.
I drove home.
I told myself I was being dramatic.
That Martin was simply a bitter businessman.
That Anthony was paranoid because men like Anthony Russo probably survived by assuming everyone was dangerous.
I parked outside my apartment building.
Nothing looked unusual.
I climbed the stairs.
Unlocked my door.
Everything was exactly where I had left it.
I laughed at myself.
Then my phone buzzed.
Anthony.
HOME?
I stared.
Then typed:
Yes.
Three dots appeared.
GOOD.
I almost replied something sarcastic.
Then I noticed the envelope.
It was on my kitchen table.
White.
Unsealed.
I stopped breathing.
I had locked the apartment when I left.
I knew I had.
I moved toward it slowly.
My name was written on the front.
Emma.
No last name.
Inside was a photograph.
Ryan—Anthony—and me at the restaurant on the night we met.
Taken through the front window.
I felt sick.
There were more.
Us walking by the river.
Anthony handing me coffee.
Me unlocking Corner Print & Copy.
Someone had been following us from the beginning.
Beneath the photographs was a handwritten note.
Four words.
ASK HIM ABOUT YOUR FATHER.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
My father?
My father had been dead for eleven years.
A man who spent most of my childhood disappearing and apologizing.
A man Anthony Russo could not possibly have known.
My hands shook.
I called the number Anthony had given me.
Someone answered immediately.
“Russo Security.”
“This is Emma Bennett.”
Silence.
Then:
“Stay where you are.”
My stomach dropped.
“How do you know who I am?”
The line went quiet.
Then I heard Anthony’s voice in the background.
“Give me the phone.”
A second later, he was there.
“Emma?”
“There are pictures in my apartment.”
Silence.
“What pictures?”
“Us.”
Another silence.
This one colder.
“Did you touch anything else?”
“No.”
“What does the note say?”
I hesitated.
“Emma.”
“Ask him about your father.”
Nothing.
Not breathing.
Not movement.
Nothing.
Then Anthony said something I had never heard from him before.
A curse.
Quiet.
Terrified.
I gripped the phone.
“You know what it means.”
“Lock the door.”
“Anthony.”
“Emma, lock the door.”
“You promised you’d tell me.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me now.”
He was silent for several seconds.
Finally:
“Your father’s name was Daniel Bennett.”
My knees weakened.
“How do you know that?”
“Because he didn’t die in a car accident.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Yes, he did.”
“No.”
I could barely breathe.
“My mother identified the body.”
“Your mother identified what she was told was his body.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What are you saying?”
Anthony’s voice dropped.
“I’m saying your father worked for my family.”
I sank into a chair.
“That’s impossible.”
“He disappeared eleven years ago.”
“He died eleven years ago.”
“No, Emma.”
My eyes filled.
“Stop.”
“I wish I could.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why are you telling me this?”
“Because somebody just broke into your apartment and left photographs connecting you to me.”
His voice became colder.
“And whoever did it knows something I hoped had died with my father.”
I stared at the photograph from our first dinner.
Two lonely strangers.
Two empty chairs.
A coincidence.
Except suddenly it didn’t feel like one.
I whispered, “Did you know who I was when we met?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did someone photograph us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did my father know you?”
Anthony exhaled.
“Not me.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
A knock sounded at my apartment door.
I jumped.
Anthony immediately said, “Do not open that.”
Another knock.
Three slow taps.
My blood turned cold.
“Emma?”
“I’m here.”
“Stay away from the door.”
I backed into the kitchen.
The knocking stopped.
Then something slid beneath the door.
A photograph.
Old.
Faded.
I stared at it from across the room.
“Anthony…”
“What?”
I moved closer.
The picture showed three men standing outside a warehouse.
One was Anthony’s father.
I recognized him from old newspaper photographs.
The second was my father.
Younger.
Smiling.
Alive.
And the third man—
I stopped breathing.
It was Martin Keane.
Written across the bottom in black ink were the words:
YOUR FATHER WASN’T THE TRAITOR.
RUSSO WAS.
Then my door handle began to turn.
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
Source: Stories of Destiny · Nhan Nhan
