Chapter 2 - An Unmarked Black Envelope
By midnight, the restaurant had emptied out like a drained sink. Henderson had spent twenty minutes screaming at Bella in the dry storage room, his face purple, his spittle landing on her uniform. He had fired her three times, rehired her twice, and ultimately ordered her to scrub down the kitchen floors until the grout turned white.
"You almost got us buried in concrete!" Henderson had hissed before slamming the back office door. "If he comes back, you hide in the walk-in cooler, do you hear me?"
Bella didn't answer. She scrubbed the tile until her knuckles bled and the smell of bleach burned the back of her throat. By 1:30 a.m., she stepped out into the biting chill of the alleyway, pulling her worn wool coat tight around her chest. The rain had turned into a cold, needle-like sleet that cut through her thin stockings.
As she reached the mouth of Orchard Street, a sleek black Maybach rolled up to the curb, its tinted windows humming down just two inches.
Vinnie Gallo stepped out into the rain, unbothered by the wet cement. In his massive, scarred hand, he held a thick, unmarked black envelope sealed with dark red wax.
"Get in," Vinnie said flatly.
Bella stepped back, her hand plunging into her pocket to wrap around the handle of her metal pepper spray. "I'm going home. Step away from me or I scream."
Vinnie didn't flinch. He didn't even smile. He simply extended the envelope. "The boss doesn't like repeating himself, and he certainly doesn't hire kidnappers. Take it. It's for you."
Bella hesitated, the sleet melting against her eyelashes. She snatched the envelope from his hand. It was remarkably heavy. "What is this? Hush money?"
"Consider it an invitation to keep breathing," Vinnie grunted, stepping back into the warm leather sanctuary of the sedan. "He wants to see what kind of girl puts her hands on a king. Tomorrow night. Nine sharp. The address is inside. Don't be late. He hates waiting more than he hates cockroaches."
The Maybach pulled away, its red taillights bleeding into the rainy mist.
Bella tore open the wax seal beneath the flickering sodium streetlamp. Inside was a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills—twenty-four thousand dollars, banded in neat paper tape. Exactly one cycle of Marco’s experimental immunotherapy.
Tucked between the stacks was a single, embossed card:
May you like
The Penthouse at the Grand Royale. 9:00 PM. Dress like you aren't afraid of dying.
Her knees buckled. How did he know? How did he know the exact dollar amount of the invoice sitting on her kitchen table? She held the money against her chest, shivering violently, realizing the terrifying truth: Aleandro Moretti hadn't just watched her in the restaurant. He had torn her life open before she even took off her apron.
