Chapter 1

The first time Nico brought his girlfriend along, he asked if I minded dropping her at work. The coffee shop was two blocks from the Brooklyn social club where I kept the Bellandi family’s books. I told him it was fine.

After that, he stopped asking.

Nico had driven my father for eleven years. When he started driving me, he still got out to open my door, even in the rain. The morning I found the note, he stayed behind the wheel and watched me open it myself.

A yellow sticky note was stuck to the leather on my side of the back seat.

NO FREELOADERS.

I peeled it off. “Nico. What’s this?”

His girlfriend twisted around in the passenger seat. “You can read, right? Every morning you climb into my boyfriend’s car like he owes you a ride. If you can’t afford a cab, stay home.”

Nico met my eyes in the rearview mirror, then looked away.

“I don’t know why you think he’s your personal chauffeur,” she added. “It’s embarrassing.”

At that, Nico got out and came around to the rear door. He lowered his voice.

“Ms. Bellandi, she doesn’t know I’m your chauffeur.”

“What did you tell her you do?”

“I told her I work for the family.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She gets jealous. This is just her way of showing she cares.”

“Does she think the Cadillac is yours?”

He looked past me. Through the windshield, I could see her checking the time on her phone.

“She doesn’t want to ride with you,” he said. “I’ll drop her off first, then come back for you.”

He shut the rear door while I was still standing there with the note in my hand. By the time I said his name again, he was behind the wheel. His girlfriend reached over and turned up the radio. Neither of them looked back as they pulled away.

My father would have called the club. The men who brought their crews’ envelopes to my counting room took my word on what they owed. Two of them were already there that morning. Either one could have brought Nico back before his girlfriend finished tying her apron.

I folded the sticky note and put it in my coat pocket. Then I took out my phone and dialed 911.

“I’d like to report a stolen car,” I said. “My driver just drove off in my Cadillac without my permission. There’s a woman with him. I have the plate number.”

……

Twenty minutes later, a patrol car pulled up. I’d just handed one of the officers my license when I heard tires squeal at the corner.

My Cadillac came into view. Nico hit the brakes so hard the nose dipped, then threw the driver’s door open. He was halfway to me before he seemed to realize how fast he was moving. He stopped and smoothed the front of his jacket.

“Ms. Bellandi, what happened?” He looked from me to the officers. “What are the cops doing here?”

I let him wait for an answer.

One of the officers handed back my license. “Ms. Bellandi reported that someone drove off in her car without permission. Were you behind the wheel?”

“Yes, but I’m her driver. I pick her up every morning.” Nico raised both hands, palms out. “I dropped somebody off on the way. It took a couple of extra minutes. That’s all.”

“On the way to where?” I asked.

He looked at the empty passenger seat.

“Look, I brought it straight back.” He pointed at the Cadillac, trying for a smile. “You can see that for yourself. Nobody stole anything.”

The officer turned back to me. “Do you still want to make a report, Ms. Bellandi?”

Before I could answer, Nico took a step closer and dropped his voice.

“Please. Think about my dad. All those years he drove for you and your father. Just let this go.”

I looked at him then.

“He’s still sick,” Nico said. “You know how long he’s been after me to find somebody. I finally do, and she thinks there’s something going on every time I pick you up. I was trying to keep the peace. What was I supposed to do?”

Tell her whose car she was sitting in. He could have managed that in one sentence.

But when he brought up his father, I pictured Owen holding that same rear door open with both hands on a windy day so it wouldn’t swing shut on me.

He’d driven my father for eleven years and me for six. In all that time, he’d never been late and never picked up so much as a parking ticket. Every Christmas I gave him a bonus in a plain envelope. Every Christmas he tried to hand it back, and I had to tell him to take it home before he’d put it in his coat.

Three months earlier, Owen’s doctor had told him he needed to stop working while he received treatment for a lung condition. Owen turned in his keys that week.

On his last day, he stood in my office above the social club, turning his cap in his hands. I’d already thanked him and told him to call if he needed anything. He was still standing there.

“It’s my boy,” he finally said. “Nico lost his job. If you’ve got something for him, would you give him a chance?”

Men came into that office all the time to collect on favors they claimed my father owed them. In seventeen years, Owen had never asked for one.

I told him his son could start Monday.