With a gentleness that shocked the room, Lorenzo took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed a drop of champagne from Sophie’s cheek.
“What is your name?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her chest.
Sophie opened her eyes. She was looking up into the darkest, most intense eyes she had ever seen.
“Sophie,” she whispered. “Sophie Clark.”
Lorenzo nodded slowly. He turned his gaze to his mother.
“Mama,” he said softly. “Are you hurt?”
Isabella looked up, her face brightening.
“Enzo, this nice girl, she caught me. She stopped the floor from moving.”
“I know, Mama. I saw.”
Lorenzo turned to Beatrice Vane. The temperature in the room seemed to drop 10 degrees.
“Mrs. Vane,” Lorenzo said.
His voice was polite, which made it terrifying.
“You seem to have mistaken my mother for someone who tolerates disrespect. And you seem to have mistaken this young woman”—he gestured to Sophie—“for someone without a protector.”
Beatrice trembled so hard her jewelry rattled.
“Mr. Moretti, I—I didn’t know. I thought she was just some nobody.”
“Nobody?”
Lorenzo stepped into Beatrice’s personal space. She smelled of fear and expensive wine.
“You just humiliated the woman who gave me life, and you assaulted the only person in this room with enough honor to stand up to you.”
He turned to the manager.
“Mr. Henderson.”
“Y-yes, Mr. Moretti.”
“Mrs. Vane is leaving. Now.”
Lorenzo did not shout. He did not have to.
“And if she is ever allowed into any establishment you oversee in this city again, I will buy the building and burn it to the ground with you inside. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Moretti.”
The manager frantically waved for security.
“Escort Mrs. Vane out. Immediately.”
As Beatrice was dragged away, sobbing and pleading, Lorenzo turned back to Sophie. She was shivering, partly from the cold champagne, partly from adrenaline. She started to pull away.
“I—I should go. I’m going to get fired for this.”
“No,” Lorenzo said.
He took off his tuxedo jacket. It was heavy, warm, and smelled of sandalwood and power. He draped it over Sophie’s wet shoulders. It swallowed her small frame.
“You’re not fired, Sophie Clark,” Lorenzo said, buttoning the jacket at her neck, his knuckles brushing her skin. “In fact, you’ve just gotten a promotion.”
Sophie looked up at him, bewildered.
“I—I don’t understand.”
Lorenzo offered his arm to his mother on one side, and then, to the shock of the entire city of Chicago, he offered his other arm to the champagne-soaked maid.
“Walk with me,” he commanded, though it sounded almost like a plea. “We have much to discuss.”
As they walked out of the ballroom, leaving a stunned silence in their wake, Sophie had no idea that she had just walked out of her old life and into the lion’s den.
