Chapter 2 - THE CAR THAT NEVER CAME
“Emma?” Marco DeLuca said from the doorway. “What are you still doing here?”
I lifted the contract in my hand.
“Mr. Moretti left these.”
Marco walked closer and looked at the yellow sticky note.
Handle when you can. D.M.
Then he stared at me.
“Emma, that means next week.”
I almost laughed.
“In what universe does Dominic Moretti mean next week?”
“Tonight, apparently.”
Marco pulled out his phone.
“I’m getting you a car.”
“I can take the train.”
“No.”
The sharpness surprised me.
“I’ve taken the train hundreds of times.”
“Not tonight.”
Before I could ask why, Marco noticed the document lying open on my desk.
His expression changed.
North Shore Freight Holdings.
I had spent the previous hour reviewing its acquisition renewal.
Something about the figures bothered me.
Three subsidiaries invoiced the Moretti organization for the same warehouse-security project.
Same month.
Almost identical amounts.
One point eight million dollars.
Three times.
“Where did you get this?” Marco asked.
“Dominic’s stack.”
“Did you copy anything?”
“No.”
“Email it?”
“No.”
He seemed relieved.
That bothered me more than the numbers.
“Marco?”
He closed the folder.
“Go home.”
“What is North Shore Freight?”
“Not your problem.”
“Then why is it in my boss’s contracts?”
He gave me the tired look older men sometimes gave women they hoped would stop asking intelligent questions.
“Emma.”
“No.”
I took the folder back.
“You’re acting strange.”
“Because it’s New Year’s Eve and you’re working alone while half the city is drunk.”
“That isn’t the reason.”
Before he could answer, the elevator opened.
Dominic stepped out.
Black tuxedo.
White shirt.
No tie.
He looked like he had walked away from a magazine advertisement designed by someone with morally questionable taste.
His eyes found me immediately.
Then the contracts.
Then Marco.
His expression darkened.
“Why is she still here?”
Marco lifted both hands.
“I just discovered that myself.”
Dominic looked at me.
“I told everyone to leave at five.”
“You left work.”
“I left paperwork.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He approached my desk and saw the North Shore folder.
For the briefest second, something moved behind his eyes.
Fear?
That was impossible.
Dominic Moretti did not fear paperwork.
“Where did you find this?”
“You put it on my desk.”
“I did not.”
Silence.
Marco and Dominic exchanged a look.
I saw it.
“What?”
Dominic picked up the folder.
“Nothing.”
“You both just made the same face.”
“What face?”
“The one people make when they know something I don’t.”
His jaw tightened.
“Emma, go home.”
“Gladly.”
I grabbed my purse.
“My coat is downstairs.”
“No train.”
“Sir—”
“Marco will arrange a car.”
Marco nodded.
Dominic started walking away.
Then stopped.
“Emma.”
“Yes?”
“Call me when you get home.”
I stared at him.
In two years, Dominic had never once asked me to call him after work.
“Why?”
His eyes held mine.
“Because I asked.”
I should have been annoyed.
Instead, something cold slid down my spine.
At 10:04, I retrieved my coat from the staff room.
The snow had intensified.
By the time I reached the lobby, Chicago beyond the glass looked almost erased.
I checked my phone.
A message from the transportation desk.
CAR CANCELED PER EXECUTIVE OFFICE. DRIVER NEEDED FOR VIP GUEST.
I sighed.
Of course.
I called Lily.
No answer.
Probably already at Millie’s.
I considered going back upstairs.
Then another message appeared.
This one supposedly from Dominic.
EMMA — BRING NORTH SHORE RED FILE TO SOUTH ENTRANCE. ATTORNEY WAITING. D.M.
I frowned.
Dominic had taken the folder.
Maybe there was another copy.
The records room near the elevators contained one.
I found it, signed it out, then took the service elevator down.
The south entrance was rarely used except for private deliveries.
There was no attorney.
Only snow.
I stepped beneath the awning.
“Hello?”
A black sedan idled near the curb.
A man exited.
Tall.
Dark overcoat.
Hat low over his face.
“Ms. Clarke?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Moretti sent me.”
“For the file?”
He held out his hand.
Something stopped me.
Dominic never sent unidentified people for confidential documents.
“Your name?”
The man paused.
“Daniel.”
“Last name?”
“Give me the folder.”
I stepped backward.
“No.”
His expression changed.
“Ms. Clarke.”
“I’m calling Mr. Moretti.”
I reached for my phone.
He moved quickly.
Not dramatically.
One second my phone was in my hand.
The next it hit the pavement.
His shoe came down on it.
The screen shattered.
I screamed.
He grabbed the folder.
I held on.
“Let go.”
“No!”
He pulled harder.
Pages spilled into the snow.
Then headlights appeared around the corner.
The man cursed.
He released me, snatched several loose pages, and ran toward the sedan.
I stumbled after him.
“You can’t—”
The car disappeared.
I turned toward the building.
The south door had closed behind me.
I pulled the handle.
Locked.
I swiped my badge.
Red light.
Again.
Red.
I banged on the glass.
“Hello!”
Nobody came.
The party was thirty floors above me.
The regular security desk could not see the recessed south entrance from the lobby.
I tried walking around the tower.
Wind hit me so hard I nearly fell.
My wool coat was designed for five minutes between a building and a cab.
Not a Chicago blizzard.
I made it around one corner.
Then another.
The snow swallowed the sidewalk.
My shoes filled with freezing water.
My fingers stopped hurting.
That should have frightened me more.
I reached the front of the tower.
I could see the lights.
People inside.
Warmth twenty yards away.
But the sidewalk barriers set up for the party forced pedestrians around the building.
I tried calling for help.
My phone was broken.
A taxi passed without seeing me.
I kept walking.
Ten steps.
Five.
Then I slipped.
My knee hit pavement.
“Get up,” I whispered.
I couldn’t feel my feet.
I stood again.
Somewhere above me, the party music grew louder.
11:20.
11:27.
I had no idea how much time passed after that.
I remember sitting beside a concrete planter because I wanted to rest.
Just for a second.
Snow gathered on my sleeves.
My body stopped shivering.
And suddenly I was warm.
That was when I knew something was terribly wrong.
I thought of Lily.
I thought of my mother.
Then, strangely, I thought of Dominic.
His handwriting.
Call me when you get home.
I wanted to tell him I had tried.
The next thing I heard was shouting.
Not close at first.
Then very close.
“Emma!”
Hands touched my face.
Strong arms pulled me out of the snow.
I opened my eyes a fraction.
Dominic.
He was kneeling in the street without a coat.
His tuxedo pants were soaked.
His hair was covered in snow.
I had never seen him afraid.
I wished I hadn’t seen it then.
“Who let her leave alone?”
No one answered.
Dominic looked toward the guards.
“I asked a question!”
“Sir, transportation said—”
“Bring the car!”
Marco appeared behind him.
“Dominic.”
“What?”
Marco’s face had gone pale.
“Her protection detail was pulled at ten.”
I barely understood the words.
Dominic did.
His entire body went still.
“By who?”
“We don’t know.”
“Find out.”
Marco hesitated.
Dominic’s voice dropped.
“Now.”
He lifted me.
I pressed my cheek weakly against his shirt.
“Sir…”
“I’m here.”
“The file…”
“Forget the file.”
“Someone took it.”
His arms tightened.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Marco stared at me.
Then at Dominic.
“North Shore?”
I managed to nod.
Dominic closed his eyes once.
When he opened them, terror had become rage.
“Get the doctor upstairs.”
A guard ran.
Another security officer whispered, “We need to call Ms. Chen.”
I tried lifting my head.
“Lily?”
Nobody answered.
Dominic looked at Marco.
And that was when he made the mistake that exposed everything.
“Why wasn’t Lily with her?” he demanded. “You assigned her to Emma for exactly this reason.”
My mind fought through the cold.
Assigned?
Marco said quietly, “Dominic, she can hear you.”
Dominic froze.
I stared up at him.
“Assigned… Lily?”
No one spoke.
My roommate.
My best friend.
The woman who had shared rent with me for eighteen months.
Dominic looked down at my face.
There was regret in his eyes now.
“Emma—”
“Who is Lily?”
His jaw tightened.
Before he could answer, Marco said the one name I never expected to hear inside Moretti Tower.
“This is about Elias Clarke.”
My father.
I stopped breathing for an entirely different reason.
Dominic snapped his head toward him.
But it was too late.
I whispered:
“What does my father have to do with you?”
May you like
And for the first time in two years, Dominic Moretti had no answer ready.
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