Chapter 2 - Tên Chapter 2 - The Midnight Interrogation
Suite 800 was larger than my entire apartment building. Vaulted ceilings, silk damask draperies, and panoramic windows looked out over the freezing expanse of Lake Michigan, where black waves smashed against the concrete breakwater under the Chicago moonlight.
Mateo dropped my belongings onto a marble console table, stepped backward, and closed the mahogany door, leaving Lorenzo and me isolated in the cavernous room.
""Sit,"" Lorenzo directed, gesturing toward an emerald-velvet armchair facing a massive antique writing desk.
I didn't sit. I walked over to the desk, planted both palms flat on the cold mahogany, and looked him directly in the eyes. I was terrified, but twenty-eight years of surviving as a plus-size girl from the rough edge of the West Side had beaten the cowardice out of me. If a man was going to ruin my life, I wasn't going to cower in a chair while he did it.
""Look at me, Mr. Bianca,"" I demanded, breathing hard. ""Do I look like an assassin? Do I look like an undercover federal agent to you? I buy shapewear at Target, I eat cold pasta at two in the morning, and my entire existence revolves around making sure rich people don't cry because their peonies arrived in blush pink instead of champagne cream. I am a working-class girl trying to pay off my grandmother's medical debt!""
Lorenzo didn't blink. He calmly removed his charcoal suit jacket, draped it meticulously over the back of an armchair, and loosened his silk tie. Underneath, his crisp white dress shirt hugged a broad, muscular frame that spoke of real, physical violence, not hours wasted in boutique fitness clubs.
""Federal agents are predictable,"" Lorenzo said, walking around the desk until he was trapped in my personal space. He leaned down, placing his hands on either side of mine, caging me against the timber. ""They wear ill-fitting shoes, they smell like cheap paper, and their eyes dart toward the security cameras every three minutes. You, however... you stood in a room with four convicted killers and screamed at a supplier so viciously that Salvatore Rossi apologized to a woman for the first time in his miserable life.""
""He was jeopardizing my banquet,"" I snapped, our noses inches apart. His eyes were amber in the lamplight, flecked with gold and ruthless intelligence.
""He respects strength. And so do I."" Lorenzo leaned closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur that vibrated right in the hollow of my throat. ""Your grandmother... what was her maiden name?""
The room suddenly felt ice-cold. ""Why does that matter?""
""Because the dialect you spoke isn't just Palermo,"" Lorenzo said softly. ""It belongs to the family that ruled the western docks before my father came to this country. The family that vanished overnight after fifty million dollars in gold disappeared from the port of Trapani in 1974. What was her name, Rosie?""
My pulse hammered behind my ears like a war drum. Nonna had told me stories on her deathbed—tales I thought were the ramblings of a woman lost to dementia. She had spoken of ocean liners, forged passports, and a ledger bound in green goat leather that contained the names of every corrupt official from Rome to New York.
""Lucia,"" I whispered truthfully. ""Lucia Moretti.""
Lorenzo drew back slightly, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. A dark, dangerous realization swept over his features. ""Moretti. The Ghost of Castellammare.""
""She was an old woman who made gnocchi and watched soap operas!"" I argued frantically. ""She died with twelve dollars in her checking account!""
""She died with a bloodline,"" Lorenzo corrected, his voice deadpan. He walked over to a leather briefcase resting on the sideboard, popped the latches, and pulled out a thick stack of green-bar financial spreadsheets. He threw them onto the desk right in front of me with a dull thud. ""You claim you are an event manager who is brilliant with numbers. Prove it.""
""Prove what?""
""Dante says my money was stolen by hijackers at Navy Pier. My internal audits show the money was wired electronically through three shell corporations before being converted to bearer bonds in Zurich. I have forty-five minutes before the wire transfer becomes irreversible. If you find the routing discrepancy and prove Dante is the rat, you walk out of this hotel tomorrow morning with a clean record and a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.""
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I swallowed dryly, looking down at the intimidating sea of debits, credits, account numbers, and foreign currency codes. ""And if I can't find it?""
Lorenzo stepped behind me, his hands resting lightly on the curve of my waist. His thumbs pressed gently through my suit fabric, resting against the softness of my hips with an unexpected, almost tender firmness. ""Then I must assume the Moretti granddaughter returned to Chicago to finish the war her family started fifty years ago. And nobody survives a war with me, Rosie.""
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