The air outside the Palmer House was biting, a typical Chicago wind that sliced through clothing, but Sophie barely felt it. She was encased in Lorenzo Moretti’s tuxedo jacket, a garment that cost more than her entire year’s earnings.
A sleek, armored Mercedes-Maybach pulled to the curb with the silent grace of a panther. Silas opened the rear door.
“Get in,” Lorenzo said.
It was not a question.
Sophie hesitated on the sidewalk. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by cold dread. She had just publicly shamed a senator’s wife and walked off with the city’s most dangerous criminal.
“Mr. Moretti, I really should go home. My shift is over. The agency will be worried.”
Lorenzo looked at her, his eyes dark under the streetlights.
“The agency has already been informed that you are no longer in its employ. You are with me now.”
“What?” Sophie took a step back. “You can’t just—”
“Sophie,” Isabella’s voice drifted from inside the car.
The elderly woman was already seated, wrapped in a cashmere blanket Silas had produced.
“Please, dear. The dark scares me. I need someone to hold my hand.”
Sophie looked at the old woman. Isabella’s eyes were wide and pleading. Then she looked at Lorenzo. His face was impassive, but his hand was holding the door open, waiting.
“My brother,” Sophie said, her voice small. “I have to get home to my brother. He’s sick. He’s waiting for me.”
“We will handle it,” Lorenzo said. “Get in the car, Sophie.”
Sophie realized she had 2 choices: run and likely be hunted down, or get in the car and see where the rabbit hole led.
She looked at Isabella again.
With a sigh of defeat, she climbed into the back seat.
The interior of the car smelled of rich leather and scotch. Lorenzo slid in beside her, the door closing with a heavy, pressurized thump that sealed them off from the world. As the car merged into traffic, silence filled the cabin.
Sophie sat stiffly, her hands folded in her lap, stained with sticky champagne. Isabella immediately reached out and took Sophie’s hand, humming a soft Italian lullaby. Lorenzo watched them from the opposite seat. He was analyzing Sophie, dissecting her like a complex business deal. He saw the scuffed black shoes, the red, chapped knuckles of a girl who scrubbed floors for a living, and the hollows beneath her cheekbones that spoke of skipped meals.
“Why did you do it?” Lorenzo asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
Sophie jumped slightly. “Do what?”
“Step in. You knew who Beatrice Vane was. Everyone knows. You knew you would lose your job. Why risk it for a stranger?”
Sophie looked down at Isabella’s hand resting in hers.
“She reminded me of my grandmother,” she said softly. “She had dementia too. People treated her like furniture. Like she wasn’t a person anymore just because her memory was fading.”
Sophie looked up, her eyes flashing with sudden defiance.
“It’s not right. Nobody deserves to be humiliated just because they’re confused.”
Lorenzo studied her. In his world, loyalty was bought and altruism was a myth. People acted only when they had something to gain. But this girl, this starving and terrified girl, had thrown herself in front of a social predator for nothing.
“You have a fire in you, Sophie Clark,” Lorenzo murmured. “I like it.”
He pressed a button on the console. A glass partition slid up, separating them from the driver.
“Let’s talk business.”
“I’m a maid, Mr. Moretti. I don’t have business with the head of the Moretti crime family.”
Lorenzo’s lips quirked in a humorless smile.
“You know who I am. Good. That saves time. I need a caretaker for my mother.”
Sophie blinked. “You have nurses. I saw them.”
“I have employees,” Lorenzo corrected. “I have people who watch her to earn a paycheck. They are cold, clinical. They are afraid of her because they are afraid of me. Tonight, you were not afraid. You protected her. You treated her with dignity.”
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
“I want to hire you exclusively. You will live at the estate. You will be her companion. You will ensure she never feels scared or alone again.”
Sophie shook her head.
“I can’t. I have Toby. He’s 16. I’m his legal guardian. I can’t just move into a mob boss’s house.”
“Bring him.”
Sophie froze.
“Excuse me?”
