Chapter 4 - The Wolf at the Table
Lorenzo’s hand dropped slowly from Harper’s cheek, his posture shifting back into the terrifying, icy stillness of the Don.
He turned toward the desk, picked up the receiver from Dante, and brought it to his ear without rushing.
“Sal,” Lorenzo said, his voice as smooth and cold as polished marble.
A rough, raspy voice exploded through the earpiece, loud enough for Harper to hear the furious breathing on the other end.
“Moretti! Where the hell is my nephew?” Sal Lombardi roared. “His car was found abandoned near the Midtown Tunnel with the doors wide open! If you touched a hair on his head—"
“Lower your voice, Salvatore,” Lorenzo interrupted, not raising his volume by even half a decibel.
The sheer authority in the command caused the older mobster on the other end to choke on his own fury, falling abruptly silent.
“Your nephew sent a nineteen-year-old boy into my Red Hook facility tonight,” Lorenzo continued calmly. “Armed with an unauthorized keycard and an eighty-thousand-dollar extortion threat against one of my restaurant staff.”
A sharp pause stretched across the line.
“I don’t know anything about a keycard,” Sal muttered, though the sudden defensiveness in his tone gave him away instantly. “Frankie runs his own side bets. He knows better than to touch your docks.”
“Then you won’t mind joining me for breakfast at the Obsidian at seven o'clock,” Lorenzo said. “Bring your transit master, Sal. Because if Frankie isn’t sitting at that table to answer my questions, I will revoke your family’s fuel permits across all five boroughs before the banks open.”
Lorenzo pressed the disconnect button, setting the receiver down on the blotter with a muted click.
He turned back to Harper, who was watching him with wide, anxious eyes.
“Frankie is missing?” she asked, her voice hushed.
“Not missing,” Lorenzo replied, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Dante. “Frankie is running. When the alarm at Sub-Vault Four tripped, he realized the boy was caught. He knows what happens to people who try to plant transponders on Moretti shipments.”
Dante nodded in agreement. “Our boys on the street say Frankie emptied his private safe in Little Italy an hour ago. He’s looking for a car to take him across the Jersey border.”
Harper took a step toward Lorenzo, her fingers clutching the sleeve of her oversized sweater.
“Mr. Moretti… what happens to Leo now?”
Lorenzo looked down at her, his features softening once more into that quiet, profound warmth reserved solely for her.
“Your brother stays in this house,” Lorenzo told her gently. “He will eat breakfast in my dining room, under the protection of my name. And tomorrow morning, the Lombardi family will pay the eighty thousand dollars they claimed he owed.”
“They will pay you?” Harper asked, confused.
“No,” Lorenzo smiled faintly, his thumb lightly brushing the back of her knuckles. “They will pay you. For the distress caused to my employee.”
Harper stared at him, her heart thumping wildly against her ribs.
In twenty-four hours, this man had turned her terrifying, chaotic existence upside down. He had faced down rival syndicates, treated her brother with mercy, and looked at her not as an object to be taken, but as someone worthy of fierce, unyielding protection.
“Why are you doing this, Lorenzo?” she asked, using his first name for the first time.
The sound of his name on her lips seemed to strike him like an electric current.
May you like
Lorenzo took a slow, deep breath, his gray eyes holding hers with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly breathless.
“Because for twelve years, Harper,” he whispered, “I thought the world was made of gray stone and cold ledgers. And then you walked into my restaurant and handed me a slice of lemon cake.”
