The first time I made Chicago’s most feared crime boss laugh, I was sitting in his chair, wearing his glasses, and accusing a twelve-pound puppy of destroying confidential evidence. Nobody in Adrian Moretti’s mansion had heard him laugh in nine years—and when that sound finally broke through the room, every armed man near the door stared at me like I had just done something more dangerous than trespassing.

The notification arrived at 0600 the following morning.

I was in the basement pantry checking the inventory of organic baking flour when Claire Whitmore stepped through the doorway. Her usual crisp demeanor was back, though her sharp blue eyes studied me with an unsettling mix of curiosity and strict caution.

"Starting today, Miss Brooks, you are assigned exclusively to Mr. Moretti's morning service," Claire announced, holding out a silver tray bearing a pristine white linen cloth and a small porcelain card. "Breakfast is served in the small dining conservatory at 0800 sharp."

"Exclusive service?" I asked, wiping my flour-dusted hands on a towel. "Is Martha ill?"

"Martha has been reassigned to the west guest suite," Claire said flatly. "Mr. Moretti specifically requested that you deliver his morning meal. Do not disappoint him, Elena. And more importantly, do not mistake his mood yesterday for an invitation to forget your place."

I took the tray, feeling the cool weight of the silver. "Understood."

At 0755, I carried the breakfast service up the spiral staircase to the conservatory—a stunning glass-enclosed room overlooking the walled gardens. Outside, the autumn rain had given way to a crisp, overcast Chicago morning.

Adrian was already seated at the head of the glass table, dressed in a charcoal-grey suit, reading a print edition of the Wall Street Journal. A steaming cup of black coffee sat beside his plate, untouched.

As I stepped into the room, he lowered the newspaper. His gaze was sharp, tracking my every movement as I arranged the silver covers, the bowl of fresh berries, and a basket of warm brioche I had baked from scratch two hours earlier.

"Good morning, Mr. Moretti," I said quietly, keeping my eyes low.

"Good morning, Miss Brooks," he replied, his voice deep and smooth in the quiet room. "I trust Winston didn't ambush you on the stairs?"

"No, sir. He was asleep in the laundry room when I came up."

Adrian reached for a brioche, breaking it open. A faint steam rose from the buttery pastry, filling the air with the scent of real butter and vanilla bean. He paused, looking at the bread, then at me.

"This isn't from the usual bakery in River North," he noted, taking a bite.

"I made them this morning," I admitted softly. "The kitchen had French flour in the pantry. I thought... well, the commercial bread lacked proper fermentation time."

Adrian chewed slowly, his eyes narrowing in thought. For a moment, he said nothing, and my anxiety flared. Then he set the half-eaten pastry down and leaned back in his chair.

"You were a baker," he stated, not as a question, but as a realization.

"My family owned a bakery in Milwaukee," I replied, stepping back to stand near the side credenza with my hands folded. "Brooks Bakery. It closed six months ago."

"Why?"

"Rising costs, medical bills, and bad loans," I said plainly. "The usual story."

Adrian looked at me for a long moment, as if reading the hidden history behind those brief sentences. "And now you are carrying trays in my house."

"It pays the bills, Mr. Moretti. And it keeps my father in his care facility."

Before he could respond, the heavy glass door of the conservatory slid open. A man in his late fifties stepped inside—tall, thin, with silvering hair pulled tight against his skull and eyes like polished obsidian.

This was Dominic Vance, Adrian’s senior lieutenant and the man who oversaw the Moretti family’s logistical operations across the Midwest.

"Adrian," Vance said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. "The docks in Gary are secured. But we have a minor discrepancy regarding the manifests from the European shipment."

Vance glanced at me, his eyes cold and assessing, clearly waiting for me to leave.

I instinctively bowed my head. "Excuse me, sir."

"Stay, Miss Brooks," Adrian ordered quietly, his voice cutting through the rising tension. He picked up his cup of coffee. "Vance, sit down. What discrepancy?"

Vance hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly before he took a seat opposite Adrian. "Three crates of industrial hardware from the Hamburg line were flagged by customs. Someone inside the port authority dropped an anonymous tip."

"A tip from whom?" Adrian asked, his voice entirely flat, all warmth from a moment ago vanishing into stone.

"We suspect the Rossi family," Vance replied, casting another cold glance in my direction. "They're testing the perimeter, Adrian. Ever since you turned down their offer for the transportation corridor through Indiana, Marco Rossi has been looking for a crack in the armor."

I stood frozen beside the credenza, trying to make myself as small as possible. The name Rossi was legendary in Chicago—and not for charitable work.

Adrian took a slow sip of his coffee. "Marco Rossi is an impatient man. Impatient men make mistakes." He set his cup down with a soft click against the saucer. "Clear the crates through our legal channels. Pay the fines. Do not engage."

"And Marco?" Vance pressed, leaning forward. "He's telling the street you're softening. He's claiming the Moretti name doesn't carry the weight it used to."

Adrian turned his head slowly toward Vance. The atmosphere in the room shifted so violently that I felt the goosebumps rise on my arms.

"Let him talk," Adrian said softly, his voice carrying a dark, quiet authority that chilled the room. "The tongue is the easiest muscle to cut out."

Vance stared at Adrian for three seconds, then gave a single, rigid nod. "Understood."

As Vance stood up to leave, his eyes brushed against mine again—a cold, lingering look that felt less like suspicion and more like a warning.

When the glass door closed, Adrian picked up his brioche again, his expression returning to its previous impassive calm. "The pastry is excellent, Miss Brooks."

"Thank you, Mr. Moretti," I murmured, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"You may clear the table at nine," he added, turning his attention back to the newspaper. "And Elena?"