Chapter 8 - DINNER WITH THE MOST FEARED MAN IN CHICAGO
Lorenzo took me to a small Italian restaurant in Lincoln Square.
No photographers.
No chandeliers.
No intimidating private dining room.
Just red-checkered tablecloths and an elderly owner who called him Lorenzo bambino.
I laughed.
He looked offended.
“Don't.”
“Bambino?”
“Sophie.”
I grinned.
“This is wonderful.”
Over dinner, I learned things the newspapers never mentioned.
Lorenzo hated olives.
He loved old jazz records.
He had once wanted to become an architect.
And he couldn't cook anything more complicated than scrambled eggs.
I told him about Toby.
About our mother, who died when I was nineteen.
About leaving community college to work full-time.
About the years I'd spent trying to make sure my brother never felt like a burden.
Lorenzo listened.
Not politely.
Not impatiently.
He genuinely listened.
When dessert arrived, he asked, “What would you do if money weren't a problem?”
I considered.
“Go back to school.”
“What would you study?”
“Social work. Maybe nonprofit management.”
He smiled.
“Why?”
“Because I've spent years trying to navigate systems that seem designed to exhaust people who need help.”
He nodded.
“And?”
“I'd like to make that easier for someone else.”
We walked outside afterward.
Chicago was cold, the sidewalks damp from an earlier rain.
Lorenzo offered me his coat.
I refused.
He offered again.
I gave him a look.
He laughed.
“Stubborn.”
“Very.”
At the car, he turned toward me.
“Sophie.”
“Yes?”
“I need to tell you something.”
My heart began beating faster.
He looked uncomfortable.
“My family history isn't clean.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
“Some things I've done aren't things I'm proud of.”
I waited.
He continued, “I've spent years trying to make the legitimate parts of our business stand on their own.”
I looked at him.
“Then keep doing that.”
He smiled sadly.
“You make it sound simple.”
“It isn't.”
I took a breath.
“But if you want me in your life, I need honesty. Not excuses.”
He studied me.
Then nodded.
“Fair.”
He didn't kiss me that night.
He asked if he could see me again.
I said yes.
And somehow, that felt more important.
The next morning, Grace Holloway visited the foundation office.
She carried a sealed envelope.
Her hands shook.
“Sophie?”
I looked up.
“Yes?”
“I found something else.”
She placed the envelope on my desk.
Inside was a photograph of Beatrice Vane standing beside a man in a gray suit.
I frowned.
“Who's he?”
Grace swallowed.
“His name is Victor Sloane.”
“Should I know him?”
She nodded.
“He's the foundation's outside financial adviser.”
I stared.
May you like
Then she added:
“He also manages the trust that bought Lucia Moretti's necklace.”
