Chapter 2 - UNDER MORETTI PROTECTION
Lorenzo Moretti looked at me for so long that I became painfully aware of every stain on my waitress uniform.
Then he spoke.
“From this moment forward, Sophie Clark is under my protection.”
The ballroom went completely silent.
Not quieter.
Silent.
Even the orchestra stopped playing.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I had expected him to thank me.
Maybe nod.
Maybe give me enough money to cover the shift Beatrice Vane was undoubtedly about to get me fired from.
I had not expected three hundred of Chicago’s most powerful people to stare at me as though Lorenzo had just placed a crown on my head.
Beatrice’s face drained of color.
“Mr. Moretti,” she said carefully, “surely this is a misunderstanding.”
Lorenzo’s arm remained around his mother.
“No misunderstanding.”
“It was an unfortunate accident.”
“The wine was an accident.”
His voice lowered.
“What happened afterward was a choice.”
Beatrice swallowed.
Across the ballroom, Senator Charles Vane stepped forward.
He was silver-haired, polished, and famous for smiling while saying things that ruined lives.
“Lorenzo,” he began, “my wife was upset.”
“So was my mother.”
Charles glanced around at the watching crowd.
“This is a charity gala. Perhaps we shouldn't turn it into something unpleasant.”
Lorenzo smiled.
There was no warmth in it.
“You mean unpleasant for you.”
Nobody laughed.
Charles Vane’s smile disappeared.
Lorenzo looked toward the event manager.
A nervous man named Mr. Hartley hurried forward.
“Who employs Miss Clark?”
“I—I do, sir. Technically the hotel staffing contractor.”
“Not anymore.”
I blinked.
Mr. Hartley blinked harder.
Lorenzo turned to me.
“What do you make here?”
I stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“Your hourly wage.”
My face burned.
“Eighteen dollars.”
A few guests shifted awkwardly.
Lorenzo’s expression changed in a way I couldn’t read.
“Eighteen dollars an hour,” he repeated.
I hated how exposed I suddenly felt.
“I don't need charity.”
His eyes met mine.
“Good. I wasn't offering any.”
That surprised me.
Before I could answer, Isabella touched my wrist.
Her fingers were cool.
“Your name is Sophie?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled weakly.
“You were very brave.”
“I was angry.”
“That is often where bravery begins.”
For the first time that night, I smiled.
Then Isabella’s knees buckled.
Lorenzo caught her before she hit the floor.
“Mama.”
His voice changed completely.
The feared mafia boss disappeared.
A terrified son took his place.
Isabella’s eyes fluttered.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you're not.”
Lorenzo looked toward the exits.
“Car. Now.”
Two men in dark suits moved immediately.
I stepped back.
My part in this nightmare was over.
At least I thought it was.
Then Isabella tightened her grip on my wrist.
“Come with me.”
I froze.
Lorenzo looked at his mother.
“Mama, she has work.”
“I don’t want strangers.”
Something painful flashed across his face.
He glanced at me.
“You don't have to.”
I should have said no.
I had eleven dollars in my checking account.
My brother was home alone.
My manager was probably preparing to fire me.
And getting into a car with Lorenzo Moretti was the kind of decision sensible people spent their entire lives avoiding.
Then Isabella whispered, “Please.”
So I went.
We crossed the ballroom together.
Nobody stopped us.
As I passed Beatrice, she leaned toward me.
“This isn't over.”
I looked at her.
Maybe I should have been afraid.
Instead, I said, “I know.”
Outside, black SUVs waited beneath the hotel awning.
Chicago rain hammered the pavement.
Lorenzo helped Isabella into the back seat of the first vehicle.
I climbed in beside her.
He sat opposite us.
The door closed.
Suddenly there were no chandeliers.
No politicians.
No witnesses.
Just me, Isabella, and the most dangerous man in Chicago.
His eyes settled on me.
“Where do you live?”
I hesitated.
He noticed.
“If I wanted to know, Sophie, I wouldn't need to ask.”
That did not make me feel better.
“West Side.”
“Alone?”
“With my brother.”
“How old?”
“Fourteen.”
Something softened in Isabella’s expression.
“And your parents?”
“My mother died four years ago. My father left before that.”
“I’m sorry.”
I nodded.
The car moved.
Lorenzo glanced at my shoes, cheap black flats with one sole beginning to separate.
“You said you don't need charity.”
“I don't.”
“But you need something.”
I bristled.
“Everybody needs something.”
His mouth almost curved.
“Fair answer.”
My phone buzzed.
Three missed calls.
Toby.
Fear punched through me.
I answered immediately.
“Toby?”
His breathing came through the phone thin and strained.
“Sophie.”
I sat upright.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t find the other inhaler.”
My blood turned cold.
“Toby, use the blue one.”
“It’s empty.”
Lorenzo's gaze sharpened.
“Are you wheezing?”
“A little.”
“A little” was Toby language for yes, badly.
I looked out the window.
“We need to stop.”
Lorenzo didn’t ask why.
“Address.”
I gave it to the driver.
“We're going to the hospital,” Lorenzo said.
“No, I need to get home.”
“He's having an asthma attack.”
“He hates hospitals.”
“And if he stops breathing?”
I glared at him.
“You don't know him.”
“No,” Lorenzo said. “But I know what fear sounds like.”
His eyes flicked toward his mother.
I understood.
Ten minutes later, three Moretti SUVs stopped outside my crumbling apartment building.
Neighbors stared through windows.
I ran upstairs.
My apartment door was unlocked.
“Toby!”
He was sitting on the kitchen floor, shoulders hunched, fighting for every breath.
My world narrowed.
I dropped beside him.
“Oh God.”
Lorenzo came in behind me.
One look at Toby and he turned.
“Call Dr. Mercer. Tell him respiratory emergency.”
“I can't afford a private doctor.”
Lorenzo ignored me.
He crouched near Toby.
“Hey, kid.”
Toby looked terrified.
“Who are you?”
“Someone with a car.”
Even Toby almost smiled.
Within minutes, we were rushing toward a private medical center.
I held Toby’s hand.
Lorenzo sat across from us.
His phone rang repeatedly.
He ignored every call.
Doctors were waiting when we arrived.
Toby disappeared behind emergency-room doors.
I stood frozen in the hallway.
Lorenzo remained beside me.
“You should be with your mother.”
“She’s upstairs being examined.”
“You could leave.”
“So could you.”
I looked at him.
“Why are you doing this?”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then his voice became quiet.
“Because when three hundred people decided my mother wasn't worth defending, you did.”
“That doesn't mean you owe me.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“It means I know exactly what kind of person you are.”
Before I could respond, a doctor approached.
“Miss Clark?”
I stood.
“Your brother is stable. We got medication into him quickly. He'll be fine.”
My legs nearly gave out.
I covered my mouth.
“Thank you.”
The doctor smiled.
“You brought him in just in time.”
I turned toward Lorenzo.
But he was looking at his phone now.
The expression on his face had become hard.
“What?” I asked.
He showed me the screen.
A photograph.
My apartment building.
Taken from across the street.
Timestamped twenty minutes earlier.
Beneath it was a message.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LET THE OLD WOMAN CRY.
My stomach dropped.
“Who sent that?”
Lorenzo slowly lifted his eyes to mine.
“I don't know yet.”
For the first time that night, I saw something colder than anger in his face.
Calculation.
“Your brother won't be returning home tonight.”
“What?”
“Neither will you.”
“You don't decide that.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“But whoever sent this has already decided you're part of something you don't understand.”
I looked at the threatening message again.
My hands started trembling.
Lorenzo’s voice lowered.
“You defended my mother for thirty seconds.”
He slid the phone into his pocket.
“Now someone wants to punish you for it.”
His eyes met mine.
“So until I find out who, Sophie, you're coming home with us.”
And that was how, less than two hours after serving champagne to strangers who couldn't remember my name, I became a guest inside the home of Chicago's most feared family.
May you like
I had no idea that someone inside that house was already waiting for me.
And they knew exactly who I was.
