Chương 2 - The Arrival
The heavy, arched oak doors of the Moretti estate swung inward, letting in a sharp gust of cold Chicago wind along with the man who had torn my world apart.
Julian Vance stepped onto the polished travertine foyer like he owned the ground beneath his feet. He was thirty-two, sharply tailored in a bespoke charcoal wool coat, his dark hair slicked back with ruthless precision. On his wrist gleamed a platinum Rolex—a watch paid for with the inheritance he had systematically stolen from my father while my father lay dying in a hospice bed.
"Vincent, my friend!" Julian’s loud, boisterous voice echoed off the thirty-foot ceilings, ringing with a fake, practiced camaraderie. "Apologies for dropping in unannounced, but the dock authority signed off on the shipment three hours ahead of schedule. I figured you'd want the manifests delivered by hand—"
Julian stopped mid-stride.
His polished Italian leather shoes came to a halt twenty feet away from where I stood frozen beside the mop bucket.
His eyes, cold and calculating, moved from Vincent’s face down to where Vincent’s large, calloused hand still held my left wrist—my sleeve pulled back, exposing the deep, Jagged keloid scars and the circular, dark burn mark around my forearm.
Julian’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of recognition crossed his features, followed instantly by a wave of disbelief, and then a quick, smooth mask of casual indifference.
"Well, well," Julian murmured, his voice dropping an octave, losing its warmth. "I see you've met the hired help."
Vincent did not let go of my wrist. He didn't even turn his head toward Julian immediately. Instead, his dark hazel eyes remained fixed on my face. He felt the violent, uncontrolled shudder that rippled through my body the moment Julian spoke. He felt my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"You know her, Vance?" Vincent asked softly.
The tone of Vincent’s voice sent a chill straight down my spine. It was devoid of emotion—cold, flat, and absolute.
Julian chuckled, though the sound was hollow against the dead silence of the hallway. He took two steps closer, unbuttoning his coat and resting his hands casually in his trousers pockets. "Know her? Maya was my late uncle's stepdaughter. A troubled girl, Vincent. Very unstable. She disappeared two years ago after... well, after a mental health crisis. I had no idea she’d ended up scrubbing floors in your house."
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. "He's lying," I whispered, the words scraping out of my throat before I could stop them. "He's lying..."
Vincent gently let go of my wrist, but he didn't step away from me. He turned fully to face Julian Vance.
Standing six-foot-three, built like a wall of solid granite, Vincent Moretti dominated the space. The two guards behind him, Marco and Mateo, subtly shifted their feet, spreading out to flank the foyer, cutting off Julian’s angle toward the main exit.
"A mental health crisis," Vincent repeated, rolling the words over his tongue as if testing their weight. "And these marks on her arm? How did a troubled girl acquire a chemical burn from an industrial pipe clamp, Vance?"
Julian’s eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle twitch appearing at the corner of his jaw. "She self-harmed, Vincent. Ask anyone who knew her back then. She was unhinged after her father passed. I tried to help her, tried to get her into a facility, but she ran off with some low-life, got herself pregnant, and—"
"Julian," Vincent interrupted, his voice barely above a murmur.
Julian paused. "Yeah?"
"Shut your mouth."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Mrs. Bennett, who had been standing at the end of the grand staircase holding a stack of fresh linens, looked as pale as a bedsheet. She quietly retreated into the shadows of the corridor.
Julian swallowed hard, his arrogant composure cracking around the edges. "Look, Vincent, I came here to talk business. About the shipments at Pier 42. Whatever sob story this girl has fed your staff—"
"She hasn't said a word to me," Vincent said, taking a slow, deliberate step toward Julian. "She was on her knees trying to scrub dried blood out of my floor. Blood that came from her own hands because my housekeeper worked her until her skin split."
Vincent stopped two feet away from Julian. He was half a head taller than the younger man, his presence overwhelming.
"Marco," Vincent said without turning his head.
"Yes, Don Vincent?" the older guard answered immediately.
"Take Miss Linwood to the library. Have Dr. Rossi examine her hands and give her something for the pain."
"No—please," I blurted out, panic rising in my chest. "My daughter... Sophia is at the daycare on 4th Street. I have to pick her up by five or they'll—"
Vincent turned back to me. For a second, the harshness in his eyes dissolved, replaced by a deep, quiet gravity. "Mateo will pick up your daughter, Maya. She will be brought here safely. Nobody will touch her. You have my word as a Moretti."
I stared at him, overwhelmed, terrified, and utterly confused. In the underground world of Chicago, a Moretti's word was law.
"Go with Marco," Vincent added gently.
May you like
As Marco guided me toward the hallway leading to the library, I looked back over my shoulder one last time.
Vincent was standing inches from Julian Vance. He reached out, grabbed Julian by the lapels of his expensive charcoal coat, and dragged him toward the private study, locking the heavy mahogany doors behind them.
