Chapter 3 - The Order at Table One
The second song was a slow, melancholic rendition of "I'd Rather Go Blind." Sienna sang it directly to the amber lights of the VIP booth, her voice weaving through the dim room like a trail of velvet smoke. When she finished, the applause was thunderous, led by the high-society guests who took their cue from the boss's unprecedented reaction.
She bowed briefly, stepped off the stage before Phillip could ask for a third, and ducked straight into the employee dressing room. Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely turn the brass doorknob.
"You're alive," Phillip gasped, sliding into the room right behind her and slamming the door shut. "Sienna, you are officially an absolute miracle worker. Look at me—I'm not bleeding! I'm not in a shipping container on Lake Michigan!"
"I need my apron back," Sienna said, her breathing heavy as she leaned against the vanity mirror, staring at her flushed reflection. "I did my three songs, Phillip. Pay the hospital, and let me finish my shift. I have to clean table eight."
"Are you insane?" Phillip laughed hysterically. "You think you're going back to wiping down mahogany with lemon pledge? Look out the door!"
Before Sienna could reply, two heavy knocks rattled the wooden frame of the dressing room door.
Phillip’s panicked expression instantly returned. He opened the door an inch.
Matthew Rossi stood in the hallway. His bespoke charcoal suit was immaculate, his grey hair neatly slicked back, his facial expression entirely unreadable. Behind him stood two heavy-built men with visible shoulder holsters.
"Mr. Rossi," Phillip squeaked, adjusting his bow tie. "Is everything to Mr. Bianchi's satisfaction?"
"Step aside, Phillip," Matthew said smoothly, pushing the door open with a single finger.
His sharp eyes swept over Sienna, taking in her simple black dress, her dark, untamed hair, and the quiet defiance burning in her hazel eyes. He had seen hundreds of women try to catch Lorenzo Bianchi’s attention—supermodels, heiresses, corrupt politicians' daughters. None of them had ever earned a second glance. This girl had done it in a waitstaff uniform with a blues song.
"Miss Holloway," Matthew said, his tone polite but leaving zero room for argument. "Mr. Bianchi would like you to join him at his table."
Sienna straightened her back, folding her arms across her chest. "Tell Mr. Bianchi that my shift ends at two in the morning, and I have six tables waiting for their receipts."
Phillip went pale. "Sienna, please, for the love of God—"
Matthew raised a single hand, stopping the manager mid-sentence. A faint, amused smirk touched the underboss's lips.
"It wasn't a request, Miss Holloway," Matthew said softly. "The boss doesn't like to be kept waiting. And I assure you, your tables have already been cleared and paid for. In fact, Mr. Bianchi just bought out the rest of your contract with the Velvet Note."
Sienna felt a cold drop of sweat trace down her spine. "He bought my contract?"
"You no longer work for the club," Matthew clarified, stepping back to leave the doorway clear. "You sing for him. Now, please. Don't make me ask a second time."
Sienna looked at Phillip, who was frantically nodding at her to obey. She knew the rules of Chicago. She knew that men like Lorenzo Bianchi didn't take 'no' for an answer, and pushing them usually resulted in people ending up in the Chicago River.
She took a slow breath, smoothed down the fabric of her black dress, and stepped into the hallway. "Lead the way."
They walked through the crowded club. The patrons watched in stunned silence as the nameless waitress was escorted up the carpeted stairs to the elevated VIP booth—a sanctuary reserved strictly for syndicate royalty and high-ranking officials.
The two enforcers pulled back the heavy velvet curtain.
Lorenzo Bianchi was sitting alone in the deep leather booth. The ambient amber lighting caught the sharp angles of his face, his dark hair touched with silver at the temples, his pale hazel eyes fixing onto her the moment she stepped inside.
The air inside the booth felt heavier, thicker, charged with a quiet, dangerous energy.
"Sit," Lorenzo said. His voice was a smooth, deep rasp that settled into her bones.
Sienna stood her ground for a second before sitting on the edge of the leather bench opposite him, keeping a careful distance. "Mr. Bianchi."
Lorenzo leaned back, inspecting her like a man examining a priceless piece of stolen art. Up close, he was even more intimidating. He carried the scent of expensive sandalwood, fine tobacco, and vintage scotch. There was an undeniable lethality to him, yet his posture was entirely calm, calculated, and composed.
"Where did you learn to sing like that, Sienna?" he asked, speaking her name as if he had known it all his life.
"New Orleans," she replied, keeping her voice steady. "My mother sang in churches. My father played brass in the French Quarter. You learn quickly when you grow up there."
Lorenzo picked up his glass, swirling the dark amber liquid. "You didn't sing for the crowd tonight. You sang like someone who was running out of time."
Sienna locked eyes with him. "We're all running out of time, Mr. Bianchi. Some of us just have the bills to prove it."
A quiet beat passed. Matthew, standing outside the curtain, held his breath.
Lorenzo’s eyes flared with a spark of interest. "Your brother," he said quietly. "Leo Holloway. Age nineteen. Currently admitted to Northwestern Memorial with a rare autoimmune condition. His treatment costs twelve thousand dollars a month."
Sienna’s heart stopped. Her hands clenched into tight fists on her lap. "You investigated me?"
"I don't allow strangers onto my stage," Lorenzo said smoothly, setting his glass down. "And I certainly don't allow people with heavy debts near my inner circle without knowing where their loyalties lie."
"I don't have loyalties to anyone!" Sienna snapped, her Southern temper flaring past her caution. "I serve drinks, I wash dishes, and I try to keep my brother alive! I don't care about your mafia wars, your money, or your club!"
The enforcer outside the curtain shifted uncomfortably, but Lorenzo held up a hand.
He leaned forward across the mahogany table, closing the distance between them. His face was inches from hers, his pale eyes piercing straight through her defenses.
"Starting tomorrow," Lorenzo said softly, "you sing here three nights a week. Only when I am in the room. In exchange, your brother's medical bills are paid in full. The best specialists in the country will be flown into Chicago by tomorrow afternoon."
Sienna stared at him, stunned. "Why? Why would you do that for me?"
May you like
Lorenzo reached out, his long, scarred fingers lightly touching the edge of the wooden table.
"Because for three years, this city has been completely silent," Lorenzo whispered, his voice dark and possessive. "And tonight, you made me hear something again. Do we have a deal, Sienna?"
