The little girl did not ask for a table.

I didn't wait until Friday.

At eight o'clock the following morning, I stood outside the stone skyscraper on South Michigan Avenue, my body shivering from both the biting winter air and the terror that had kept me awake all night.

I took the brass elevator up to the fourteenth floor. The doors slid open to reveal a spacious, elegant reception area with dark wood panelling, soft leather couches, and large windows overlooking the frozen skyline of Chicago.

A sharp-looking secretary looked up from her desk. “May I help you?”

“I need to see Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice hoarse. “It’s urgent. My name is Claire Dawson. I work at Bellamy’s.”

The secretary’s professional demeanor changed instantly. She picked up her desk phone, spoke two quiet words, and then gestured toward a heavy double door at the end of the hall. “Go right in, Miss Dawson.”

I pushed open the heavy door.

The executive office was vast, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, dark Persian rugs, and a massive mahogany desk facing the windows.

Dominic Moretti was sitting behind the desk, wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Standing beside him was Mr. Santoro, holding a stack of financial folders.

Moretti looked up as I stepped inside. His eyes narrowed slightly when he saw my pale face and dark circles under my eyes.

“Miss Dawson,” Moretti said, setting his gold pen down. “What happened?”

I stood in the center of the vast Persian rug, my hands clutched tightly in front of my winter coat, and told him everything. I told him about Marcus Vance walking into the empty restaurant during the blizzard, about the muddy boots, about the threat to Emily and Sophie, and about the silver steak knife driven into the center of Table Eleven.

As I spoke, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet into sub-zero cold.

Moretti did not interrupt me once. He sat completely still behind his desk, his dark features turning into an impenetrable mask of pure, crystalline ice. His scarred jaw tightened slightly, but his eyes remained deadly calm.

Beside him, Mr. Santoro’s face turned ash-grey. “Boss... Vance has gone completely out of his mind. Threatening a civilian in your private establishment?”

Moretti raised a single finger, silencing Santoro instantly. He kept his gaze fixed on me.

“Did he touch you, Miss Dawson?” Moretti asked softly.

“N-no, sir,” I stammered. “He just... he gave me the message.”

Moretti leaned back in his leather chair, looking out at the snowy Chicago skyline. He was quiet for a long moment—a silence so intense that I could hear the faint ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner of the office.

“You showed great courage coming here today, Claire,” Moretti said softly, using my first name for the very first time. “You could have kept quiet and looked the other way, just as you did the night Emily walked through my doors.”

I swallowed hard, looking down at the floor. “I made that mistake once, Mr. Moretti. I swore I would never do it again.”

A faint, subtle warmth returned to Moretti’s dark eyes. He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out an envelope, and pushed it across the mahogany surface toward me.

“There is five thousand dollars in that envelope,” Moretti said calmly. “Take two weeks off work. Go visit your family in Indiana. Get out of the city until this matter is resolved.”

I looked at the envelope, then raised my head, shaking it firmly. “I don't want your money, Mr. Moretti. I just want Emily and Sophie to be safe.”