Chapter 3 - Two Creams, No Sugar
The small, dimly lit diner on the outskirts of Lake Forest was nearly empty at 8:30 on a Wednesday evening.
The bell above the glass door chimed as Rocco guided Hannah inside, his large hand resting lightly at the small of her back.
Two of his associates took seats in a booth near the entrance, ordering black coffee and watching the parking lot through the blinds.
Hannah sat in a vinyl corner booth, drowning inside Rocco’s oversized coat, feeling utterly out of place among the chrome and neon.
The waitress arrived with two thick ceramic mugs, setting them down on the laminated tabletop with a cheerful clatter.
Rocco reached across the table, picked up the silver creamer, and carefully poured two precise splashes into Hannah’s mug.
He pushed it toward her without offering sugar, exactly as she had instructed him in her grandfather's hallway.
Hannah stared at the swirling tan liquid, a lump rising in her throat.
"You remembered," she whispered, wrapping her chilled fingers around the warm porcelain.
"I don't forget details about people who matter," Rocco replied, leaning back against the vinyl cushion.
"I don't matter, Mr. Ferrante," Hannah said, looking down at the table.
"Marlene made that very clear today. I'm just the granddaughter who washed the laundry and got shoved into the hallway."
Rocco’s jaw tightened, a dark, dangerous muscle ticking beneath the shadow of his stubble.
"Edmund Weller wrote to me once a month for nine years, Hannah," Rocco said, his voice dropping into a solemn, reverent tone.
"He was the commanding officer on my father's naval destroyer during the Korean War."
"When my father took three pieces of shrapnel in the engine room, Edmund carried him four decks up through burning oil on his own shoulders."
Hannah looked up, her hazel eyes widening with sudden understanding.
"Grandfather never talked about the war," she murmured softly.
"Because men who actually bleed for others don't boast about it at cocktail parties," Rocco stated, his gaze locking onto hers.
"Edmund saved my father's life. When my father died fifteen years ago, he made me swear on our family's name that I would watch over Edmund if he ever needed help."
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a worn, yellowed envelope covered in Edmund’s shaky cursive.
"In his final letter, written three weeks before his heart failed, he told me that his daughter Marlene had stolen his checkbook."
"He told me that his grandson Bram had threatened to put him in a state-run sanitarium if he didn't sign over the estate deeds."
"And he told me that his granddaughter Hannah had sacrificed her entire youth, her nursing degree, and her rent money to keep him safe in his own bed."
Tears finally welled in Hannah’s eyes, spilling over her lashes and trailing down her pale cheeks.
"He was so scared at the end, Rocco," she sobbed quietly, using his first name without thinking.
"He kept thinking the nurses were German soldiers. I had to sit by his bed all night singing old sea shanties just so he could sleep."
Rocco reached across the table, his rough, calloused thumb gently wiping away a tear from her cheekbone.
May you like
"You carried an old soldier home, Hannah," Rocco said with fierce, unyielding conviction.
"And on Friday morning, I am going to make sure that house pays you back every single cent you gave away."
