Chapter 1 - The Canvas Bag on the Marble Floor
Men in Chicago had disappeared for stealing less than what I suspected my maid of taking from my home. So when I ripped the bulging canvas bag from her trembling hands and dumped it onto my marble floor, I expected to find proof of betrayal. Instead, what spilled out made a mafia boss feared across the city feel ashamed of the rules he'd been so proud of.
Fear had built half my empire. The other half was built on loyalty. I ran one of Chicago's most powerful crime families, and people who knew the Rossi name knew there were certain lines you didn't cross. But inside my estate, I had different rules. My guards, drivers, gardeners, and cleaners were paid well. Every evening at seven, my chef served them steak, risotto, lobster, fresh bread. My rule was simple: if you worked for me, you ate well.
Then Tessa Cole arrived. Twenty-six. Quiet. Painfully thin. Every night when dinner was served, she slipped out through the staff entrance carrying the same olive-green canvas bag. Empty in the morning, bulging at night. Suspicion is what keeps men like me alive. So I tested her. I left $10,000 on my office desk. Security footage showed Tessa lift the cash, wipe beneath it, then replace every bill. The next day, I left a sensitive USB drive beside my laptop. She didn't touch it. Still, that bag kept leaving full.
Friday night, I'd had enough. I waited beside the staff exit as freezing rain hammered Chicago.
“Give me the bag,” I demanded.
Tessa went pale. “Mr. Rossi, please.”
“Open it.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “You'll fire me.”
That was enough for me. I grabbed it. She fought to keep hold. “Please, don't!” The strap slipped. Everything scattered across the marble. Plastic containers. Apples. Bread. Sandwiches wrapped in napkins. Small portions of meat and vegetables packed carefully enough to last another meal. Then three school notebooks slid to my feet. Children's handwriting covered them.
I looked at Tessa. “What is this?”
Her face broke. “My brothers.” Their mother had died the year before. Their father was gone. Tessa was working two jobs while raising two boys alone. She wasn't stealing from my kitchen. She was saving portions of her own lunch.
“For them?” I asked.
She nodded. I stared at the food. “What do you eat?”
She looked away. “Tessa.”
“Coffee, mostly.”
I've heard men beg for their lives without losing sleep afterward. But those two words followed me all night. Coffee, mostly. While my men ate steak downstairs, this twenty-six-year-old woman walked into the Chicago cold hungry because two children were waiting for her.
The next morning, I changed the rule. Anyone working for me could take their meal home to their family. No questions. No explanations. That evening, I stopped my chef. “Pack three dinners.” He glanced at me. “For who?”
May you like
“One for Tessa. Two for the boys.”
Then I looked toward the hallway where she was working. Because three hot meals weren't going to fix what I'd seen on that marble floor. I'd already made a phone call that morning. And when Tessa discovered what the most feared man in her world had quietly arranged for her and those two boys, she couldn't even speak.
