Chapter 5 - THE MORNING SUMMONS
The next morning, the bell above the door of a high-end bakery in midtown chimed softly.
Sophie sat in a corner booth, nursing a cup of black coffee and a warm croissant—luxuries she hadn't afforded herself in months. Her phone, resting beside her ceramic mug, vibrated against the wooden table.
An incoming text message from an unknown number.
Unknown: "Finish your coffee, Sophie. Car 3 is waiting outside the bakery. Don't keep a Moretti waiting."
Sophie’s breath caught. She looked up through the clean glass window of the bakery.
Parked illegally by the curb was a matte-black Maybach with tinted windows. As she watched, the rear door swung open, and one of Alessandro’s hulking bodyguards stepped out, scanning the street with cold, practiced precision before looking directly toward the bakery window.
He locked eyes with Sophie and gave a polite, chilling nod.
There was no running. There was no hiding.
Sophie paid for her coffee with a trembling hand, left her half-eaten croissant on the plate, and pushed open the bakery door into the cold morning air.
As she approached the Maybach, the rear door opened automatically from the inside.
Inside the dimly lit, leather-scented interior of the car sat Alessandro Moretti. He wasn't wearing a suit today; instead, he wore a dark turtleneck under a wool overcoat, looking even more dangerous in casual wear than he did in formal attire.
"Get in, Sophie," Alessandro said, his gravelly voice cutting through the hum of the engine.
Sophie slid across the plush leather seat, pulling her coat tightly around her. The door clicked shut, locking automatically.
"I didn't say I wanted a ride," Sophie said, trying to keep her voice firm, though her heart was hammering against her ribs.
"You didn't have to," Alessandro replied, turning his head to look at her. His dark eyes were studying her with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. "People in your position don't turn down rides from men who pay their rent. Unless, of course, they enjoy sleeping on park benches."
"What do you want from me, Mr. Moretti?" Sophie asked, cutting straight to the point. "I’m a waitress. I’m broke. I don't know anything about your business, your unions, or your docks."
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"No," Alessandro agreed, a faint, cryptic smile touching his lips. "You don't know anything about my docks. But you know something about the international counterfeit wine ring operating out of the West Side piers—the one currently using L’Étoile Noir as a drop point for illegal French imports."
Sophie’s eyes went wide.
