Chapter 2 - The Rules of the Phantom
Hannah spent the next morning staring at the five-hundred-dollar bill on her chipped kitchen table. Mason, sitting across from her with his heavy leg cast propped on a milk crate, was crunching cereal while eyeing the green paper suspiciously.
“Did you sell an organ?” Mason asked bluntly.
“A rich guy in Box Six had pity on me,” Hannah muttered, pouring cheap instant coffee into her mug. “Or he paid me not to breathe his air. I’m not entirely sure which.”
“Take it,” Mason said quietly, his playful demeanor vanishing. He tapped his cast. “Physical therapy bill arrived yesterday. Two hundred and eighty bucks. If you give that money back, Han, I swear I’ll limp down to the theater and yell at your boss myself.”
Hannah sighed, squeezing her brother’s hand. “We pay the clinic first. Always.”
When she arrived at the Grand Marlowe at noon, the atmosphere in the administrative wing was electric. Harlan, the theater manager whose anxiety usually manifested as chronic paper-shuffling, was practically hyperventilating in the hallway.
“He called,” Harlan whispered frantically, grabbing Hannah’s arm as she punched her timecard. “His office called directly. The Moretti firm!”
Hannah froze. “Moretti?”
“Dominic Moretti, Hannah! The man owns shipping lines, real estate developments, half the downtown riverfront, and three private boxes here that he never uses except to brood in the dark! His executive secretary phoned fifteen minutes ago. He wants private catering and dedicated ushering for his box every Thursday this season. And he specifically requested you.”
Hannah’s heart dropped into her stomach. “Me? Harlan, I work the ticketing desk and event logistics. I’m not a VIP hostess.”
“You are whatever Mr. Moretti wants you to be, or the board will replace me with an automated kiosk and fire both of us!” Harlan pushed a laminated gold lanyard into her hands. “He pays double the standard concierge fee. Every Thursday. You sit outside the curtain, you make sure no one breathes on his doorway, and you bring him sparkling mineral water in a crystal goblet at precisely eight-fifteen. Do not look him in the eye. Do not make jokes. The man is rumored to have ties to people who make bodies disappear into the Delaware River.”
That evening at seven-thirty, Hannah stood outside Box Six, holding a silver tray with the specified water bottle. Her sensible flats were replaced by the formal black heels required of private-tier staff.
The heavy curtains parted, and Dominic walked in, followed by Luca, who positioned himself like a stone gargoyle in the shadows. Dominic was dressed in another bespoke charcoal suit, his silver-flecked dark hair combed back neatly.
He paused when he saw Hannah standing by the doorway.
“You didn’t run,” Dominic said, stepping past her to the front row of the box.
“You tipped five hundred dollars,” Hannah countered, following him inside and setting the tray on the side table. “In my neighborhood, running away from a five-hundred-dollar tip gets you committed to a psychiatric ward.”
Dominic sat down in the center chair, leaving the chairs on his left and right vacant. He looked up at her, an enigmatic smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
“Your brother’s medical bills must be demanding,” he observed casually.
Hannah’s body went completely rigid. The air in the private box turned arctic. “Excuse me?”
“Mason Cole. Twenty-six. Multiple fractures of the tibia and fibula following an industrial scaffolding collapse at the rail yard four months ago. No workers' comp settlement reached yet because the subcontractor declared bankruptcy.” Dominic picked up the bottle of water. “I do not allow people into my space without knowing who they are, Miss Cole.”
“You ran a background check on me because I fell asleep next to you?” Hannah demanded, her fear momentarily eclipsed by fierce anger.
“I ran a background check because nobody sits in my box,” Dominic replied coldly. “Nobody touches my world without an agenda. But you didn’t ask for my name, you didn’t recognize my face, and your record shows an absurd devotion to paying debts that aren’t yours.”
Hannah crossed her arms, defying the etiquette manual Harlan had drilled into her. “My brother didn't ask to have two tons of steel fall on him, Mr. Moretti. I pay his debts because family doesn't abandon family. Now, do you want your water poured, or should I stand outside like a well-dressed guard dog?”
May you like
Dominic stared at her for a long, quiet moment. Something shifted in the depth of his dark eyes—an emotion remarkably close to respect.
“Pull up the chair, Hannah,” he said quietly, nodding to the seat beside him. “The curtain is rising.”
