Chapter 1 - “Who fired her?”
Roman’s voice wasn’t loud.
That somehow made the kitchen quieter.
David Kesler stood beside his office door with one hand still half-raised from throwing my paycheck onto the floor.
Around us, cooks stopped chopping.
A dishwasher stood frozen beside the sink.
One of the pastry chefs stared openly at the three men in dark suits who had entered behind Roman.
I looked at him too.
Less than two hours earlier, Roman had been lying beneath a rusted fire escape with his blood soaking through my apron.
Now he stood perfectly upright in a charcoal suit.
Almost perfectly.
I noticed the stiffness in his left side.
The careful way he breathed.
The slight pallor beneath his skin.
Whatever had happened after I left that alley, he had not magically recovered.
He had simply become better dressed.
David swallowed.
“Mr. Moretti.”
Moretti.
The name landed somewhere in my memory.
I had heard it before.
Chicago business pages.
Commercial real estate.
Hotels.
Private clubs.
Something else too.
Something people lowered their voices to discuss.
Roman ignored David.
His eyes found mine.
Then dropped to the envelope lying near my shoes.
“Megan.”
Hearing my name from him made several employees look at me.
I bent down and picked up my paycheck.
Roman watched.
“You were fired?”
I straightened.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Roman—”
“Why?”
I didn’t like the direction this was going.
David deserved criticism.
Maybe consequences.
But I had no interest in watching a frightened man get destroyed because someone powerful happened to owe me his life.
“I was forty-five minutes late.”
Roman looked at my blouse.
Blood stained the fabric.
His blood.
Understanding settled over his face.
“You were late because of me.”
“Yes.”
David finally found his voice.
“Mr. Moretti, I can explain.”
Roman turned toward him.
“Please do.”
David adjusted his tie.
“Our attendance policy is strict. Megan has responsibilities during dinner service. Tonight we have several important guests and—”
“She told you why she was late?”
“Yes, but—”
“She told you she’d stopped to help an injured man?”
“Yes.”
“And you fired her.”
David’s face reddened.
“I had no way to verify her story.”
Roman looked at the blood on my blouse.
Then at David.
“Apparently.”
One of Roman’s men almost smiled.
Roman didn’t.
David tried again.
“With respect, Mr. Moretti, Laura has standards.”
Roman’s expression changed slightly.
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
That one word made David look more frightened than if Roman had shouted.
I stepped forward.
“Roman.”
His eyes moved to me immediately.
“I don’t want this.”
“What?”
“This.”
I gestured between him and David.
“I don’t want somebody punished because you feel like you owe me.”
David looked astonished.
Roman looked curious.
“You believe I owe you?”
“I kept you from bleeding to death.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re welcome.”
Something almost like amusement touched his face.
Then vanished.
I continued.
“If you came here to make David beg or fire him in front of everyone, don’t.”
David stared at me as though I’d lost my mind.
Maybe I had.
Roman Moretti apparently frightened him enough that his hands were shaking.
That meant Roman had power here.
Real power.
And I knew enough about powerful men to understand that being useful to one could become dangerous very quickly.
Roman looked around the kitchen.
“Everyone back to work.”
Nobody moved.
He lifted an eyebrow.
Movement exploded.
Knives resumed chopping.
Pans clattered.
Someone dropped a spoon.
Roman looked at David.
“Your office.”
Then at me.
“You too.”
“No.”
That surprised him.
“I need to leave.”
“Why?”
“My son.”
His expression changed.
“You have a son?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Five.”
“Where is he?”
“With my neighbor.”
I checked the dead phone in my hand out of habit.
“I was supposed to pick him up after work, but now I can go early.”
Roman glanced at one of his men.
“Get her a phone.”
“No.”
The man stopped.
Roman looked at me.
“No?”
“I don’t need a phone.”
“Yours is dead.”
“Water damage.”
“So you need a phone.”
“I need my paycheck.”
I held up the envelope.
“And I need to go buy my son’s antibiotics before the pharmacy closes.”
Roman stared at me.
“You stopped in an alley while your son was sick?”
The question irritated me.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you were bleeding.”
“You didn’t know me.”
“Blood works the same way in strangers.”
For the first time, Roman Moretti smiled.
Barely.
Then he winced.
His hand moved toward his side.
I noticed.
“So you’re not fine.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“You shouldn’t be standing.”
“I’ve been told.”
“By a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“And you ignored them.”
“Yes.”
“That seems intelligent.”
One of the men behind him coughed suspiciously.
Roman glanced at him.
The man immediately became fascinated by the refrigerator.
I pointed toward the service entrance.
“Go home.”
Roman looked almost offended.
“You’re ordering me out of my own building?”
I stopped.
“My what?”
David closed his eyes.
Roman looked at me.
“This building belongs to Moretti Property Group.”
I stared.
Laura occupied the ground floor of a twelve-story historic building containing offices and luxury apartments.
“You own the building?”
“Yes.”
“Laura rents from you?”
“Yes.”
I looked at David.
His face explained everything.
“That is why you’re terrified.”
David said nothing.
Roman’s expression hardened.
“Megan.”
“What?”
“Go buy the medicine.”
“I was planning to.”
“Vincent will drive you.”
A broad man behind him stepped forward.
“No.”
Roman looked at me.
“Why do you keep saying no?”
“Because I don’t know Vincent.”
Vincent looked mildly wounded.
Roman said, “He’s harmless.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
I looked at the gun beneath his jacket.
“Your definition of harmless needs work.”
Roman’s mouth twitched.
“I’ll have a car take you.”
“No.”
“Megan.”
“I stopped you from bleeding. That doesn’t make me your employee.”
“No.”
“Or your responsibility.”
Something changed in his eyes.
“No,” he said again.
“Good.”
I put the paycheck into my purse.
“Then thank you for coming to verify my story.”
I looked at David.
“I assume that was the reason.”
David nodded quickly.
“Yes.”
I turned toward the door.
“Megan.”
I stopped.
Roman’s voice had changed.
Less command.
More question.
“Do you want your job back?”
I looked at David.
Then the kitchen.
Then the floor where my paycheck had landed.
I thought about Leo’s antibiotics.
Rent.
Groceries.
The electric bill folded beneath the fruit bowl in my apartment.
Pride was expensive.
“Yes.”
David immediately said, “Then of course—”
“But not because he’s standing here.”
I pointed at Roman.
Roman looked amused again.
David didn’t.
I continued.
“If I come back, I want the decision documented. I want the lateness recorded as an emergency. And I don’t want retaliation after Mr. Moretti leaves.”
David stared.
“You’re giving me conditions?”
“No.”
I swallowed.
My hands were shaking now.
“I’m asking whether there’s actually a job to return to.”
David looked at Roman.
I saw it.
That tiny instinctive movement.
The answer wasn’t his.
Not really.
So I made the decision for him.
“Never mind.”
I walked out.
“Megan.”
Roman followed.
I reached the alley behind the restaurant.
Rain still fell.
Not as hard.
I turned.
“You have stitches.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“Your posture.”
I pointed.
“You’re protecting your left side.”
“You’re observant.”
“You nearly died in front of me. I paid attention.”
Roman glanced back toward the restaurant.
“You need that job.”
“Yes.”
“Then why walk away?”
“Because if David rehired me while looking at you for permission, I’d spend every shift wondering what happens when you’re not standing in the kitchen.”
Roman said nothing.
“And because I have a five-year-old watching everything I do.”
“He was watching tonight?”
“No.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
I hated that he did too.
Roman reached into his coat.
I stiffened.
He noticed.
Slowly, he removed a business card.
Nothing else.
He held it toward me.
I didn’t take it.
“What?”
“Call tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to discuss a job.”
“I already had one.”
“You were fired.”
“Thank you for the update.”
Again, that almost-smile.
“What kind of job?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“That inspires confidence.”
“I own restaurants.”
“Laura?”
“No. The business belongs to a hospitality group. I own the property.”
“So you don’t even know what job you’re offering.”
“No.”
“Then you’re offering charity.”
His expression hardened.
“I don’t give charity to people who insult me this often.”
“Good.”
“Take the card.”
I did.
“Now go get your son’s medicine.”
I looked at him.
“You’re very bossy.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Probably by doctors.”
“Among others.”
I walked away.
Then turned.
“Roman?”
“Yes?”
“Did your people get you to a hospital?”
He hesitated.
“Private physician.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No hospital.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course.”
“Megan.”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
There was no power in his voice then.
No command.
Just a man standing in the rain.
“You’re welcome.”
I left.
The pharmacy was still open.
Barely.
I spent most of my paycheck on rent, medicine, groceries, and the overdue gas bill.
By the time I reached Mrs. Alvarez’s apartment, Leo was asleep on her sofa wearing dinosaur pajamas.
His cheeks were pink from fever.
My heart tightened.
Mrs. Alvarez came from the kitchen.
“Mija.”
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
She looked at my blouse.
Then at me.
“What happened?”
“Long story.”
“Is that blood?”
“Not mine.”
Her eyes widened.
“Longer story.”
She crossed herself.
I carried Leo home.
At two in the morning, after his medicine and water and a twenty-minute argument about whether medicine tasted worse than broccoli, he fell asleep beside me.
I lay awake.
Roman’s card sat on the table.
ROMAN MORETTI
No title.
No company.
Just a phone number.
I turned it over.
Blank.
I put it in a drawer.
At eight the next morning, someone knocked.
May you like
Mrs. Alvarez.
She held an envelope.
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