Chapter 2 - The Morning After
The alarm on my phone buzzed at six in the morning, a harsh, tinny sound that shattered the quiet of our tiny apartment. I laid in bed for a long moment, staring at the water-stained ceiling tiles, trying to convince myself that the events at the Palmer House had been a bizarre, stress-induced fever dream.
A Senator’s wife. A mafia boss. A room full of billionaire spectators.
I sat up, winincing as my feet touched the cold linoleum floor. Leo was still asleep in the adjoining alcove, his breathing heavy and slightly wheezy. I tiptoed into the kitchen, turned on the electric kettle, and checked my phone.
There were no texts from the catering agency. No angry emails from the shift manager. Nothing. It felt ominous, like the unnatural stillness before a tornado hits.
By eight o'clock, I had made a small pot of oatmeal and set Leo’s morning medications on the small wooden table. Leo slumped into a chair, rubbing his eyes, his messy brown hair sticking up in every direction.
"You look like you got run over by a bus, Soph," he muttered, reaching for his inhaler and taking a deep puff.
"Thanks, Leo. Great boost for my self-esteem," I smiled weakly, pouring him a glass of water. "Just a long shift last night. Lots of walking."
"Did you get the cash?" he asked, his tone shifting to that cautious, overly mature worry that sixteen-year-olds shouldn't have to carry. "For the landlord?"
"I'm picking up the envelope from the agency office at noon," I lied smoothly. In reality, I was terrified that my shift supervisor, Mrs. Gable, had revoked my pay after I abandoned my station.
Before Leo could question me further, a heavy, rhythmic knock echoed against our front door.
I froze. Our landlord, Mr. Henderson, usually pounded on the door like he was trying to break it down. This knock was different. Three precise, deliberate raps.
I walked over to the door, keeping the safety chain engaged, and cracked it open an inch.
Standing in the dimly lit, peeling hallway were two men in perfectly tailored dark gray suits. They were built like brick walls, with broad shoulders and sharp, unblinking eyes. The man in front—a tall man in his late thirties with a neatly trimmed beard—reached into his breast pocket and produced a sleek, heavy black envelope.
"Sophie Clark?" his voice was deep, polite, and completely devoid of inflection.
"Yes?" My hand tightened on the edge of the door. "Who are you?"
"My name is Dante. I work for Mr. Moretti," he said simply. "Mr. Moretti requested that you receive this immediately."
He slid the envelope through the narrow gap in the door. I took it instinctively. It was heavy, made of high-grade cardstock, sealed with a crest pressed into dark red wax.
"What is this?" I asked, my heart beginning to race.
"An invitation, Miss Clark. A car will be waiting for you downstairs at one o'clock," Dante said, adjusting his cuffs. "Please be ready."
"Wait—I have to work today. I have an afternoon shift at—"
"Your shifts at the catering company have been canceled," Dante interrupted smoothly. "And your account with them has been settled. Permanently."
Panic flared in my chest. "They fired me?"
"No, Miss Clark," Dante allowed the ghost of a faint smile to touch his lips. "Mr. Moretti bought the company this morning. Have a good day."
Without waiting for a response, the two men turned on their heels and walked down the hallway, their polished leather shoes making no sound against the worn carpet.
I closed the door and slid the deadbolt shut, standing in the entryway with my back pressed against the wood. My hands were shaking as I broke the red wax seal and pulled out a heavy cream sheet of paper written in elegant, flowing calligraphy.
Miss Clark,
My mother, Isabella, requests the honor of your presence for lunch today at two o'clock at the Moretti Estate in Oak Brook. A vehicle has been arranged.
Regarding your brother, Leo: his prescription for Fluticasone has been filled at the Walgreens on 4th Street, paid in full for the next twelve months. Additionally, your apartment lease has been acquired, and the back rent is cleared.
Consider it a small deposit on a debt that cannot be repaid with money.
Yours, Lorenzo Moretti
I stared at the paper, the ink swimming before my eyes.
"Soph?" Leo’s voice came from the kitchen. "Who was at the door?"
I pulled the paper close to my chest, letting out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Nobody, Leo," I whispered, looking at the door. "Just... a delivery."
By twelve-forty-five, I was standing in front of my tiny closet, staring at my limited wardrobe. I ended up choosing a simple, dark blue knee-length dress that I had bought at a thrift store two years ago for a job interview. It wasn't designer, it wasn't silk, but it was clean and modest.
At precisely one o'clock, I looked out the second-story window.
A sleek, obsidian-black Mercedes Maybach was parked along the curb in front of our crumbling apartment building. A uniformed driver stood beside the rear door, holding an umbrella to shield the backseat from a light drizzle that had begun to fall over the city.
I looked at Leo, who was sitting on the couch playing a video game. "I have to go out for a few hours, okay? Don't open the door for anyone."
"Where are you going?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.
"To a meeting," I said, grabbing my coat. "About a job."
I walked down the creaky stairs and stepped out into the cold Chicago air. The driver immediately bowed his head slightly. "Miss Clark. Please."
He held the door open as I slid into the leather interior. The cabin smelled of fresh mahogany and expensive leather. As the heavy door clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the city, the car glided silently away from the curb.
We drove for forty minutes, leaving the gritty streets of the West Side behind, moving through affluent suburbs until the buildings gave way to rolling green estates hidden behind towering iron gates and tall stone walls.
The car slowed down as we approached a massive security checkpoint. Armed guards in dark suits checked the undercarriage with mirrors before the heavy iron gates swung open with a low hydraulic hum.
We rolled up a long, winding driveway lined with ancient oak trees, finally coming to a stop in front of a sprawling, Tuscan-style villa constructed from warm limestone and terracotta tiles.
The driver opened my door. "Welcome to the Moretti residence, Miss Clark."
I stepped out, my throat dry, my knees feeling dangerously weak. I looked up at the massive double doors of the estate just as they swung open.
Standing in the doorway was Isabella Moretti.
She wasn't wearing the vintage velvet gown from the night before. Instead, she wore a soft, cream-colored cashmere sweater and a simple floral skirt. Her silver hair was neatly styled, and her dark eyes were bright and clear.
When she saw me, her face lit up with a warm, radiant smile.
May you like
"Sophie!" she called out, stepping out onto the stone porch, ignoring the damp air. "Oh, thank goodness you came. Come inside, child, before you catch a cold!"
I took a deep breath, smoothing down my thrift-store dress, and walked up the steps toward the most powerful family in Chicago.
