Chapter 2 - The Envelope in the Dark
The diner closed early that night. Pete was too shaken to keep the grill lit, and Ava was crying so hard in the back room that Reggie had to call her mother to pick her up.
I sat in the breakroom with an ice pack taped to my knee, staring at the ceiling. The pain had settled into a dull, throbbing ache that pulsed in sync with my heartbeat. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Matteo Moretti’s grey eyes staring down at me, cool and calculating, weighing my life on a mental ledger.
“You’re crazy, Clara,” Reggie said as he wiped down the stainless steel counters with a damp rag. “You know who that was? That was the head of the South Side syndicate. His brother Julian died three years ago in a car bombing, and Matteo took over the family with a trail of bodies behind him. He doesn't have a heart.”
“He let Pete keep the diner,” I noted quietly, wincing as I shifted my leg.
“He gave Pete a month to get forty grand,” Reggie snorted. “Pete’s going to lose his house anyway. You just bought him thirty days of sweating blood.”
I didn't answer. I knew Reggie was right, but at least Ava wasn't hurt. At least no blood was washed off the black-and-white tile along with the spilled coffee.
At 2:00 AM, I finally locked up the back door and limped out into the alley behind Maggie’s. The alley smelled of wet brick, garbage cans, and distant exhaust. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting long, wavering shadows across the wet pavement.
I leaned heavily on my aluminum cane, taking slow, agonizing steps toward the bus stop two blocks away. Each step felt like driving a rusty nail into my hip joint.
A dark sedan idling by the curb turned its headlights on as I passed.
I froze, my hand clutching the grip of my cane so hard my knuckles turned white. The passenger door swung open, and the dome light illuminated the plush leather interior.
“Get in,” a voice called from inside.
It wasn't Matteo. It was one of the men who had been standing behind him—a broad-shouldered man with a scar running from his left ear down to his collar.
“I’m taking the bus,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I took a slow step backward.
“The boss wants to speak with you,” the scarred man said calmly. “If he wanted you in a ditch, Clara, we wouldn't be using a warm car with leather seats. Get in.”
I looked down the dark, empty street. The next bus wasn't due for forty minutes. The wind blowing off Lake Michigan bit through my thin cloth jacket, making my joints ache worse.
I swallowed my fear, dragged my bad leg over the sill, and sank into the backseat of the sedan.
The car moved smoothly into the Chicago night, gliding down Michigan Avenue toward the sleek, silent towers of Gold Coast. We stopped in front of a high-rise luxury apartment building with an iron-and-glass canopy. The doorman bowed slightly as the scarred man escorted me into a private elevator.
The elevator didn't have floor buttons; the driver inserted a silver key, and the lift soared directly to the penthouse floor.
When the doors slid open, I found myself standing in a vast, minimalist room dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glowing expanse of the city. A low fire crackled in a black marble fireplace, casting warm orange flickers across polished oak floors.
Matteo Moretti sat at a heavy mahogany desk, a glass of dark whiskey at his elbow, reviewing a stack of financial documents. He had removed his heavy coat and vest; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms crisscrossed by faint, thin scars.
He didn't look up immediately. He finished signing a document, set his pen down, and then turned his cold gaze toward me.
“Your leg,” Matteo said, leaning back in his leather chair. “How did it happen?”
I leaned on my cane, refusing to show how much standing hurt. “A drunk driver five years ago. Red light at Madison and Ashland.”
“Who was the driver?”
“Some rich kid from Suburbia,” I said bitterly. “His father paid off the blood tests. He got two years probation. I got six months in the hospital, three surgeries, and a limp that ruined my dream of finishing my accounting degree.”
Matteo’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Accounting?”
“I was two semesters away from my bachelor’s at DePaul,” I said, looking around the opulent room. “Then the medical bills arrived. My father’s savings were wiped out. I took the diner job because Pete let me work around my physical therapy schedule.”
Matteo reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a thick, unmarked Manila envelope. He tossed it onto the desk. It landed with a heavy, solid thud.
“There is fifteen thousand dollars in that envelope,” Matteo said calmly.
May you like
I blinked, taking a small step forward. “Why?”
“Call it compensation for your bravery tonight,” Matteo said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. “Or call it an advance. I need an accountant, Clara. A very specific kind of accountant.”
