Chapter 1 - The Dropped Bag
“You’ve been stealing from me.”
Zo Rossi said it quietly.
That made it worse.
Men like Zo didn’t need to yell.
I stood with my back against the steel staff exit, clutching the ugly green canvas tote to my chest while freezing November rain slapped the door behind me.
Five minutes earlier, I’d been thinking about whether Mia’s glucose sensor would last until payday. Now I was wondering whether people really disappeared inside twenty-acre estates without anyone asking questions.
“I haven’t stolen anything, Mr. Rossi.”
His eyes dropped to my bag. “Then show me.”
I tightened my grip.
Bad move.
His expression changed. Not much—maybe half an inch around the mouth. But I’d grown up on the South Side. My older brother had run with guys who communicated entire threats by moving one eyebrow. I knew what that look meant.
“You bring that bag in flat every morning,” Zo said. “You leave with it full every night.”
My mouth went dry. “I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
I couldn’t. Not without admitting what I’d been doing. Not without risking the best-paying job I’d ever had. The Rossi estate paid almost twice what I’d made cleaning hotel rooms downtown. There was health insurance after ninety days, actual paid sick time, and enough overtime that I’d stopped checking my debit card before buying milk.
I needed that job. Mia needed that job more.
“Please.”
That word did it. Zo stepped forward, and I backed into the door.
“You ignored ten thousand dollars I deliberately left on an entry table,” he said. “You ignored a secure drive beside my computer.”
My stomach dropped. Those had been tests. Of course they had.
“I don’t touch things that aren’t mine.”
“And yet you’re carrying something out.”
“Mr. Rossi—”
He took the bag. I grabbed the strap. For one stupid second, twenty-six-year-old me tried to play tug-of-war with the most feared man in Chicago. It lasted maybe two seconds. He pulled the tote free.
“Please don’t.”
He unzipped it and turned it upside down.
Everything hit the concrete: plastic containers, a medical cooler, folded notices, three syringes, a packet of glucose tabs, Mia’s little stuffed rabbit with one ear missing, and dinner. My dinner. Tuesday’s lobster risotto, Wednesday’s filet mignon, yesterday’s potatoes, and tonight’s veal piccata.
The lid popped off one container, and cold meat slid across the floor, stopping against Zo Rossi’s polished black shoe.
Nobody moved.
I dropped to my knees. “God. No.”
I started scooping food off the concrete, my hands shaking so badly I mashed rice into my palm.
“I only take my portion,” I said, terror making me babble. “I swear. They put it on my plate. I don’t take anything from the pantry. I pack it in the downstairs bathroom. Nobody eats my plate after I leave. Carmine throws leftovers away anyway. I never took extra. Please don’t call the agency.”
Still nothing. Then his eyes landed on the insulin.
He crouched, and I flinched so hard I nearly fell sideways. That stopped him. He looked at me differently after that—not softer, because Zo Rossi didn’t have soft, but something in his face went very still.
He picked up Mia’s rabbit. “Whose?”
“My daughter’s.”
“How old?”
“Seven.”
He picked up a bill. I reached for it. “Please.”
He read the top line: MIA COLE. Pediatric endocrinology. FINAL NOTICE.
His jaw tightened. “She diabetic?”
“Type one.”
“You’re feeding her your dinner.”
I stared at the floor. “My grocery money went to her insulin copay.”
“And what do you eat?”
“I eat.”
It was a stupid lie, and my stomach betrayed me with a low, ugly growl. Zo looked at me, and I wanted the concrete to crack open. Instead, he picked up every bill, one by one, and put them back into my tote with the rabbit.
“Leave the food.”
“My daughter needs it.”
“Leave it.”
I stood, barely. The hallway tilted, and Zo caught my elbow before I hit the wall. I jerked away automatically, and he released me immediately—a gesture that surprised me almost as much as everything else.
“Walk.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen.”
I thought it was a punishment, but Zo walked into the estate kitchen, opened a warming oven himself, and put a fresh plate in front of me.
“Sit.”
“I have to go home.”
“Sit, Tessa.”
I sat. The kitchen smelled like butter, lemon, garlic, and fresh bread.
Zo called the chef. “Carmine. Pack enough food for a woman and a seven-year-old through Monday. Protein. Vegetables. Fruit. Bread. Breakfast too. And no truffle nonsense. Kid food.”
I sat there, stunned, as Carmine packed two insulated bags. Zo pushed a plate toward me. “Eat.”
“I can’t owe you.”
“You don’t.”
“People always say that before telling you what you owe.”
That got his attention. His eyes met mine. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Rossi.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I’m beginning to notice.”
May you like
I ate too fast, humiliated, but Zo looked ashamed—not of me, but of himself. He sent me home in a black Escalade. The driver carried the food into my apartment, where Mia was waiting with our neighbor.
At 11:42 p.m., sitting at my kitchen table while Mia slept, I stared at the boxes of food. I knew men like Zo. Kindness wasn’t normal currency in his world, and I had no idea what he planned to buy with it.
