Chapter 1 - THE WAITRESS WITH THE BROKEN SHOE
The stairs to the Marigold Suite were narrow, carpeted in burgundy, and steep enough to make my broken shoe feel like a punishment.
I carried a silver coffee pot in one hand and a tray of porcelain cups in the other.
By the time I reached the top, my ankle was throbbing.
I paused outside the double doors.
From inside came low voices.
Men.
At least six.
One of them was speaking sharply.
“You're telling me the shipment disappeared?”
Another answered.
“It wasn't supposed to.”
Silence.
Then a third voice.
Deep.
Calm.
Dangerous.
“Things don't disappear. People make them disappear.”
My stomach tightened.
Jack Moretti.
I knew that voice from television interviews and the occasional grainy news clip.
Chicago's most feared mafia boss.
Thirty-nine years old.
Owner of shipping companies, construction firms, restaurants, and businesses nobody discussed in public.
I knocked.
“Coffee service.”
The conversation stopped.
A moment later, someone opened the door.
A tall man in a dark suit looked me over.
His eyes paused on my shoe.
Then my face.
“Come in.”
I stepped inside.
The suite was enormous.
A long mahogany table stood beneath a chandelier.
Seven men sat around it.
At the far end sat Jack Moretti.
Black hair.
Dark eyes.
A charcoal suit.
No tie.
He looked younger than I expected.
And far more dangerous.
I kept my eyes down.
Placed the tray beside the sideboard.
Began pouring coffee.
The first cup went smoothly.
Then the second.
Then the third.
When I reached Jack, my broken shoe caught against the edge of the carpet.
I stumbled.
The coffee pot tilted.
Hot liquid splashed across the table.
Not much.
But enough.
Every conversation stopped.
I froze.
“I'm so sorry.”
I reached for a napkin.
My hands shook.
Jack looked at the spill.
Then at me.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Finally, he asked, “Are you hurt?”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Your ankle.”
I stared.
He nodded toward my shoe.
“You're limping.”
My throat tightened.
Nobody had noticed.
Not Victor.
Not Bianca.
Not the customers downstairs.
But Jack Moretti had noticed in less than a minute.
“I'm fine,” I whispered.
He studied me.
Then said, “Sit down.”
I froze.
“Sir?”
He looked toward the empty chair beside him.
“Sit.”
I swallowed.
“I can't. I'm working.”
May you like
Jack's expression hardened.
“Then whoever made you work in a broken shoe can explain himself to me.”
