Chapter 4 - Federal Street
The headquarters of Greco Hospitality occupied the entire top three floors of the granite-and-glass tower on Federal Street.
By Tuesday afternoon, I had traded my faded jeans and campus hoodie for a sharp, impeccably tailored charcoal pantsuit—the kind of designer armor my mother had left behind before passing away—and pinned my golden-brown hair into a sleek, professional twist. When I walked through the revolving glass doors of the lobby, the security guards didn't even blink twice. An apron made me invisible; a bespoke Italian suit made me part of the scenery.
I rode the private elevator straight to the thirty-eighth floor, my heels clicking rhythmically against the polished concrete floors of the executive suite.
The receptionist, a nervous young woman with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, looked up from her desk as I approached.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Greco’s office?”
“Tell him Nora Vance is here,” I said, my voice carrying the absolute, unquestionable authority of someone who belonged there. “And tell him I didn't come to discuss the weather.”
The receptionist hesitated, picking up her desk phone, but before she could press a button, the heavy mahogany double doors behind her swung open.
Luca Bellandi stepped out, holding a thick folder of architectural blueprints. When his eyes landed on me, his slick, arrogant expression shattered instantly. He stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth parting in sheer disbelief.
“You,” Luca hissed, taking a step forward. “What the hell are you doing here? How did past security—?”
“Shut up, Luca,” a deep, cold voice commanded from inside the office.
Dante Greco stepped into the doorway.
He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the faint edge of a dark tattoo disappearing beneath his cuffs. His dark eyes locked onto mine, moving slowly from the sharp lapels of my blazer down to my heels, before rising back to meet my gaze.
There was no surprise in his eyes. Only a slow, calculating realization.
“Nora,” Dante said, his voice dropping an octave as he pushed the door wider. “I wondered how long it would take you to trade the apron for something more expensive.”
May you like
Luca looked back and forth between us, his face twisting in confusion. “Dante, you know her? This is just some waitress from La Luna Rossa—!”
“She’s not a waitress, you idiot,” Dante said without taking his eyes off me. He gestured toward his office with a flick of his wrist. “Get in here, Nora. Let’s stop playing games in alleyways.”
