Page 29 of Unraveling Charlotte

“You think people will be inquiring about me? A waitress in a diner?” I try to conceal the disbelief in my voice, but it still leaks through. As for the password to call him Matty? I’ll know when I know.

“It’s not as straightforward as that, but yes,” he responds, guiding the car back onto my street and deliberately slowing down to extend our conversation. “Once word spreads that the hitman spared your life, you’re going to attract a lot of unwanted attention.”

“From whom, Hayes?” My fingers fidget on the door handle, craving an escape from his car. My legs seem ready to propel me toward someone who might provide answers, yet I fight my own to ask. I’ve heard enough about curiosity’s consequences, and I only have one life to spare.

“Just who is pulling the strings, huh?” he retorts with a quirked brow. The car glides to a halt in front of my house. He reaches into the cup holder, producing a business card with a flourish. “Give me a call when you’re ready, Charlotte, but I have a feeling you and I will cross paths again soon.”

“Are you trying to intimidate me, Agent Hayes?” The words slip out, skepticism dancing around the edges of my voice. His presence and persistence are starting to settle in my mind, leaving a lingering aftertaste of unease.

His lips curl into a half smile, shadows and sunlight playing across his features. “Just a promise that I’m not going anywhere,” he replies, a note of finality in his words. It’s a promise that hangs between us, a connection woven with intrigue and uncertainty, leaving me standing at the threshold of an intricate web that I can’t help but fall into.

Annoyed, I get out of the car and slam the door. Jani’s approach prompts me to quicken my pace, seeking refuge within the familiar walls of my home.

If no one else is willing to offer me answers about Salvatore Bonanno, then it seems it’s time to let the internet do the talking.

Eight

Long before Iever gained custody of Milo, I called his pediatrician because my parents were huge therapy advocates. After they passed away, his pediatrician was the first person I contacted, and he set us up with a psychiatrist. After a few years, he brought up the wordhyperfixation.

I didn’t really understand. His psychiatrist told me to watch when he became hyper-focused. It took me a little while to catch on.

I think others call it diving down the rabbit hole—an ironic reference toAlice in Wonderland.

I don’t think hyperfixation leads to this proverbial Wonderland, and when Milo falls into a hole, it’s usually about science or physics. One day, I think his obsessions will lead him to this Wonderland, where he will do incredible things for the world.

As I come up for air and take huge, gulping lungfuls, the clock reads nearly four in the afternoon, and I am not in Wonderland.

Dots dance in my vision from staring at the computer screen too long. Even when I enrolled in college for all of one lone semester, I never stared at a screen for as long as I have today.

If I didn’t have to leave, I wouldn’t stop.

Salvatore Bonanno was an American gangster.Was.

He died years ago, and according to the internet and the pictures associated with that, Salvatore was not the one who gave me a job and a home during my darkest hours. This Salvatore was the consigliere of the Bonanno crime family.

“I thought crime families died out.” Rubbing my temples, I look back at the screen and the fifty open tabs I have, because once I started, I couldn’t stop. It felt like a train wreck, a ride I couldn’t escape.

A consigliere is an advisor to the leader of a criminal organization. A simple search on family trees and mafia hierarchy helped me understand. He was more or less the human resources of the Bonanno family. He was a made man, or in other words, a fully initiated member of the mafia. What that initiation is or was is something I’m not even sure I want to dive into.

None of that matters, though, because he died of a heart attack years ago, when I was still in elementary school.

So who was Sal?

Well, I have a theory for that as well. Salvatore had four kids, and one of those was also named Salvatore. My gut tells me that’s who Sal was.

“I’ve been good to the family.”That’s what he said before the hitman shot him. I’d bet my savings on Salvatore being the son of a mobster.

Growing up, we all heard the stories of the five crime families from decades past. It was impossible not to hear about it growing up in New York. Even when I’d go out of state, I’d listen to the whispers. People would ask me about my accent, then the inevitable,do you know anyone in the mafiaquestion.

No, I don’t, because I thought they died out.

If Sal was a part of the mafia in some way, which I’m still not convinced of, then why was he murdered? He wasn’t an angry man or a hothead. He was kind, understanding, and good person.

“That’s what he wanted you to see,” I whisper to myself, slamming my laptop closed. Hanging my head on my small desk, I let it rest on the cherry wood. My father handcrafted this desk for me when I entered high school, and it has more nicks than I care to count. On the underside are little hearts I drew with permanent marker, and inside are the initials of my name and of my high school crush. “I can’t think about this right now.”

My cell phone lights up again, and I finally address the messages I’ve been avoiding all day. There are over a hundred messages in the diner group chat, mainly from the employees speculating whether we still have a job.

That’s a thought that didn’t strike me until this very moment. Rent is due in a couple short weeks, and payday is Friday. Will I have a paycheck waiting for me at the end of the week? Nerves take flight in my stomach, making it churn uncomfortably.

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