It showed a young woman standing beside a little boy.
The photograph was old, its edges yellowed and damaged.
"She used to work in a place like this," he said.
Clara looked at the picture.
"Your daughter?"
The old man nodded.
"Her name was Elena."
His voice became distant.
"She used to give food to people who couldn't afford it. Her mother always told her that a person should never let another human being go hungry if they had something to share."
Clara smiled sadly.
"She sounds wonderful."
"She was."
The old man folded the photograph again.
"She was the best thing that ever happened to me."
Clara wanted to ask what had happened to her.
But before she could speak, the restaurant door opened.
A gust of cold air swept across the floor.
A large, bald man wearing a dark burgundy shirt stepped inside.
His name was Victor Hale.
Everyone in the neighborhood knew him.
He owned several businesses, controlled a collection of private security companies, and was rumored to have connections with people who operated far beyond the boundaries of the law.
He was not officially a mafia boss.
He did not need an official title.
People simply lowered their voices when he entered a room.
Victor looked around the restaurant.
His eyes stopped on the old man.
For one second, his expression changed.
Then he looked toward the kitchen.
"Where is the manager?"
Clara immediately stood.
"He's in the office. Can I help you?"
Victor looked at her uniform.
"You're the waitress?"
"Yes, sir."
"Get your manager."
Clara glanced at the old man.
He had become completely still.
His hands were gripping the edge of the table.
"Is everything okay?" she asked.
Victor did not answer.
He walked toward the old man's booth.
The old man slowly lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
And something passed between them.
Something that Clara could not understand.
Victor's jaw tightened.
"You're still alive."
The old man said nothing.
Victor leaned closer.
"I've been looking for you."
The old man lowered his eyes.
"You shouldn't have."
Clara felt a chill move through her body.
Before she could ask another question, Victor turned toward her.
"What did you give him?"
"A cheeseburger."
Victor looked at the nearly empty plate.
"Who paid for it?"
Clara hesitated.
"I did."
"With your own money?"
"Yes."
Victor stared at her for a long moment.
Then he looked back at the old man.
"Interesting."
He reached into his pocket and took out his phone.
A few seconds later, he made a call.
"Tell him I found the old man."
He paused.
"No. Don't send anyone else. Tell him to come himself."
Then he ended the call.
Clara was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
The old man suddenly grabbed her wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough to make her look at him.
"Listen to me, sweetheart."
His voice was barely audible.
"Whatever happens next, don't let them take that photograph."
Clara looked at his hand.
Then at his face.
"What photograph?"
He glanced toward his pocket.
"The one that proves everything."
Before Clara could ask anything else, the restaurant door opened again.
This time, the entire room seemed to fall silent.
A young man entered wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit and a white shirt with the top button undone.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had never needed to raise his voice to make people obey.
His dark hair was neatly styled, his jaw was clean-shaven, and his expression was so controlled that it was difficult to know what he was thinking.
His name was Adrian Moretti.
To the outside world, Adrian was a successful businessman and the heir to the Moretti Group, an international company with interests in shipping, construction, hotels, and private investments.
But in the city's underground world, he was known by a different name.
The Prince of the Underworld.
He was the only son of Don Alessandro Moretti, the most powerful mafia boss on the eastern coast.
Adrian looked toward Victor.
"What happened?"
Victor stepped forward.
"We found him."
Adrian's eyes moved to the old man.
For the first time since entering the restaurant, the young man's expression cracked.
He stopped walking.
His lips parted slightly.
"Mr. Carter?"
The old man looked up.
Adrian took another step.
"God."
He looked as though he had seen a ghost.
"Where have you been?"
The old man shook his head.
"Go home, boy."
Adrian ignored him.
He looked at the empty plate.
Then he looked at Clara.
"Did you give him that food?"
Clara nodded.
"Yes."
"Did he pay you?"
"No."
"Why?"
She frowned.
"Because he was hungry."
Adrian stared at her.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he looked toward Victor.
"Who told you to let him sit outside in the rain?"
Victor's face hardened.
"Adrian, we have more important things to discuss."
"Answer me."
Victor looked away.
The old man slowly stood.
"Don't start a war in this restaurant."
Adrian turned toward him.
"Mr. Carter, you've been missing for eleven years."
"I know."
"My father thought you were dead."
"Then let him keep thinking that."
Adrian's expression darkened.
"My father has spent eleven years searching for you."
The old man gave a bitter laugh.
"Your father wasn't searching for me. He was searching for the truth."
Clara stood beside the table, completely confused.
She looked at Victor.
Then Adrian.
Then the old man.
What had she just walked into?
The manager finally emerged from the office.
He had heard the commotion and immediately recognized Victor.
"Mr. Hale. Is there a problem?"
Victor pointed toward Clara.
"Your employee gave away food without authorization."
The manager looked at the plate.
Then at Clara.
His face turned red.
"Clara, did you do that?"
She nodded.
"I'm sorry. I'll pay for it."
"Do you know how much money this restaurant loses because of things like this?"
"It was one meal."
"That's not the point!"
The manager raised his voice.