Chapter 4 - Midnight Summons
At 11:55 PM, Moretti Tower was preternaturally quiet. The frantic chaos of the evening elevator accident had been scrubbed away by midnight, replaced by the silent, humming efficiency of automated security protocols and armed patrols.
Norah stood outside the frosted double doors of the penthouse office on the fifty-first floor, her hands tightly clasped in front of her newly issued black-and-white maid's uniform. Her heart was beating so loudly she was certain everyone in the hallway could hear it.
Ten minutes earlier, Marco Russo had appeared quietly in the staff breakroom like a ghost stepping out of the woodwork, his silver hair catching the fluorescent light.
“Miss Hail,” he had said in a gravelly, impassive tone. “Mr. Moretti will see you now.”
She had tried to explain that her shift had ended hours ago, that she was just an entry-level housekeeper assigned to the third-tier residential floors, but Marco’s dark, unyielding gaze had cut her off before the words left her mouth. “When the Don summons, you do not ask about shifts.”
Now, standing before the heavy mahogany doors, she raised a trembling hand and knocked twice.
“Enter.”
The voice from inside was deep, resonant, and completely devoid of warmth. It carried the heavy, undeniable authority of a man accustomed to ruling kingdoms by fiat.
Norah pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.
The office was vast, dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic, glittering view of the midnight Chicago skyline. A massive walnut desk sat in the center of the room, flanked by leather bookshelves and dark Persian rugs.
Dante Moretti sat behind the desk. He had changed into a crisp black dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, revealing the edge of white gauze taped firmly across his left shoulder where the elevator panel had slashed him.
He was not looking at paperwork. His dark, piercing eyes were fixed entirely on her as she closed the door behind her with a soft click.
“You’re trembling,” Dante observed. His voice wasn't mocking; it was merely stating a physical fact, like a scientist measuring barometric pressure.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Moretti,” Norah said, her voice small but steadying as she forced her hands to unclench at her sides. “I was told to report here by Mr. Russo. If this is about the elevator incident earlier—I swear I didn't touch the controls. I was just standing there when the cable snapped—”
“I know what happened in the elevator, Miss Hail,” Dante interrupted, leaning back slowly in his high-backed leather chair. He steepled his long fingers beneath his chin, studying her with an intensity that felt almost physical, like a warm laser beam tracing the contours of her face. “My security team has already reviewed the internal shaft cameras. You were holding onto the handrail like your life depended on it. Which, objectively, it did.”
Norah swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
Dante stood up from the desk. He was taller than she had realized—easily six-foot-two—and his movements possessed an effortless, predatory grace. He walked slowly around the mahogany desk, stopping just four feet away from her.
Up close, the sheer force of his presence was overwhelming. He smelled faintly of expensive sandalwood, clean linen, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and dried blood.
“Why Moretti Tower?” Dante asked softly, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Your background check shows a degree in English literature from a state college in Indiana, clean references from three different bookstores, and zero history in domestic service. People with your qualifications don't apply for entry-level housekeeping in high-security syndicates unless they are running from something very specific.”
Norah stiffened. Her chin lifted slightly, a spark of defensive pride flashing in her hazel eyes.
“That’s none of your business, Mr. Moretti.”
Silence fell over the cavernous office. For three seconds, Norah realized with a jolt of pure terror that she had just talked back to Chicago’s most dangerous man. In stories, the arrogant mob boss usually slammed the maid against the wall for insubordination.
Instead, a strange, dark flicker crossed Dante’s face—something that looked suspiciously like amusement mingled with intense curiosity.
“Most people in this building lower their eyes when I speak, Miss Hail,” Dante murmured, taking another slow step closer until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. “They agree with whatever I say. They apologize even when they’ve done nothing wrong.”
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“I’m not most people,” Norah whispered, her breath hitching as his gaze dropped momentarily to her lips.
“No,” Dante said, his voice dropping to a rough, gravelly register that sent a violent, unexpected shiver racing down Norah’s spine. “Clearly, you are not.”
