The waiter hurried over. It was a young woman, no older than 20, looking terrified and exhausted. Her apron was pinned awkwardly at the waist. Her hands shook as she held the tray.
Sophie saw her. She saw the holes in the girl’s shoes. She saw the desperation in her eyes.
Sophie stopped the waiter.
“What is your name?” she asked gently.
“Jenny, ma’am,” the girl squeaked, terrified she had done something wrong.
Sophie took a glass of champagne. Then she reached into her clutch and pulled out a business card. It was thick, cream-colored cardstock with the Moretti crest embossed in gold.
“Jenny,” Sophie said, “my grandmother needs a companion for the afternoons. It pays $30/hour, full benefits, and we pay tuition if you’re in school. Call this number tomorrow.”
The girl’s jaw dropped. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I—ma’am, are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” Sophie said. “Don’t be late.”
Sophie turned back to Lorenzo, who was watching her with pure adoration.
“You’re soft,” he teased, wrapping his arm around her waist.
“I’m not soft,” Sophie replied, leaning into him. “I’m building my own army. You have your soldiers, Lorenzo. I have the people no one else sees.”
Lorenzo laughed and kissed her temple.
“Remind me never to cross you, Mrs. Moretti.”
“You better not,” she whispered.
They walked onto the dance floor, the king and queen of Chicago. The music swirled around them.
For the first time in his life, Lorenzo Moretti did not watch the exits. He did not scan for threats. He only watched his wife.
The maid who had saved his mother had not merely cleaned up a mess.
She had changed the fate of his house.
