Chapter 1 - The Girl Who Chose the Most Dangerous Man
A little girl stumbled between the tables, grabbed Vincent Moretti’s sleeve, and cried:
“They’re hurting my mama!”
When Vincent rose, he saw a shattered silver locket clenched in her fist.
Inside was a tiny photograph.
Two letters had been scratched beneath it:
“V.M.”
Vincent knew the attack had not been random.
The Golden Palm became silent so quickly that Vincent could hear the soft ticking of the antique clock over the bar.
Only seconds earlier, Chicago businessmen had been discussing contracts over steaks. A judge from the North Side had been laughing too loudly. Two union representatives had been pretending they did not recognize a city councilman sitting three tables away.
Now every eye had turned toward the little girl in the pink dress.
She could not have been older than six.
Her strawberry-blonde curls hung unevenly around her face. Two red smears marked her cheeks, but Vincent could not tell whether they were hers.
Her small fingers were locked around his black jacket.
She was shaking.
Vincent Moretti was thirty-five years old, and people usually moved away when he entered a room.
This child had run directly to him.
“Where is your mother?” he asked.
The girl pointed toward the entrance.
“Outside.”
Her voice broke.
“She won’t get up.”
Vincent was already moving.
“Rocco.”
A broad-shouldered man near the bar stood immediately.
“Lock the dining room. Nobody leaves.”
Several guests protested at once.
Vincent looked over his shoulder.
Nobody spoke again.
He crossed the restaurant with the girl running beside him, still holding his sleeve.
The front door stood half open.
A woman lay just beyond it near the small marble vestibule.
She wore a cream blouse and a dark skirt. Long light-brown hair covered part of her face.
One hand was stretched toward the doorway.
The other still held the strap of a torn purse.
“Mama!”
The girl tried to run forward.
Vincent caught her gently around the waist.
“Wait.”
She struggled.
“Let me go!”
“I will.”
He crouched until they were eye level.
“But first you stay behind me.”
Something in his voice made her stop.
Vincent approached the woman.
Her eyes opened.
They were hazel.
For one suspended second, confusion crossed her face.
Then she saw him.
Fear followed.
Not fear of him.
Fear for him.
“No,” she whispered.
Vincent knelt.
“What happened?”
The woman tried to push herself up.
Pain stopped her.
“They followed me.”
“Who?”
She glanced toward her daughter.
“Please.”
Vincent understood.
He turned.
“Rocco, take the child inside.”
“No!”
The girl wrapped herself around Vincent’s arm again.
“I’m staying with Mama.”
The woman managed a weak smile.
“Lily, sweetheart…”
The name hit Vincent strangely.
Lily.
He looked down at the silver locket.
The tiny photograph inside showed the woman several years younger, holding a baby.
Beside them stood another woman.
Vincent recognized her.
His expression changed.
The woman on the floor saw it.
“So you remember her.”
Vincent stared at the photograph.
“Anna Bell.”
The woman closed her eyes.
“She was my sister.”
Vincent had not heard that name in eleven years.
Anna Bell had worked briefly as an accountant for one of his father’s legitimate companies.
Then she disappeared.
According to the old story, she had stolen money.
His father had refused to discuss it.
Three months later, Anna died in a highway accident outside Indiana.
Vincent had been twenty-four.
Young enough to believe what he was told.
Old enough to remember that something about the story had never fit.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Claire Bell.”
“And someone attacked you because of Anna?”
Claire looked toward the restaurant windows.
“They attacked me because I found what she left behind.”
Vincent leaned closer.
“What did she leave?”
Claire did not answer.
A black sedan appeared at the far end of the street.
Rocco noticed it first.
“Vincent.”
Vincent stood.
The sedan slowed.
Its windows were tinted.
One of Vincent’s men moved toward his jacket.
Vincent shook his head.
“No shooting in front of the child.”
The sedan passed.
It did not stop.
But Vincent memorized the license plate.
Claire tried again to rise.
This time Vincent lifted her carefully.
Her head fell against his shoulder.
Lily immediately took her mother’s hand.
“Is Mama going to die?”
“No,” Vincent said.
He did not know whether that was true.
But Lily believed him.
Inside the restaurant, a doctor who happened to be dining with his wife came forward.
“Bring her to the private room.”
Vincent carried Claire through the restaurant.
Every guest watched.
Nobody had ever seen Vincent Moretti carry anyone.
Certainly not a wounded stranger.
Someone near the back whispered, “Who is she?”
Vincent heard him.
He stopped.
Claire opened her eyes weakly.
“Don’t,” she murmured.
Vincent turned toward the room.
“She and her daughter are under my protection.”
A fork slipped from someone’s hand.
Vincent’s voice remained quiet.
“Anyone who has a problem with that may leave Chicago tonight.”
Nobody moved.
He continued toward the private dining room.
Lily remained beside him.
The doctor examined Claire while Vincent waited in the hallway.
Rocco joined him.
“The plate belongs to a shell company.”
“Whose?”
“Registered through three layers.”
“Keep going.”
“I already did.”
Rocco handed Vincent his phone.
At the bottom of the ownership chain was a familiar company.
Moretti Development Holdings.
Vincent looked up.
“My company?”
“Technically your uncle Carlo’s division.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
Carlo Moretti was his father’s younger brother.
He was also the closest thing Vincent had to family.
When Vincent’s father died, Carlo had helped him hold the organization together.
He had taught Vincent which politicians could be trusted, which businessmen could not, and which enemies smiled before they struck.
Rocco lowered his voice.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“The sedan was reported stolen two hours ago.”
Vincent handed back the phone.
“Find it.”
The private-room door opened.
The doctor stepped out.
“She’s stable. She needs a hospital, but moving her immediately might be risky. I’ve called someone I trust.”
“Police?”
The doctor hesitated.
“No.”
“Good.”
From inside, Claire called weakly.
“Mr. Moretti?”
Vincent entered.
Lily sat beside her mother on the leather bench.
Claire had been cleaned up. A blanket covered her.
She looked exhausted.
But alert.
Vincent sat across from her.
“You knew who I was when Lily came inside.”
“Yes.”
“Did you send her to me?”
“No.”
Claire looked at her daughter.
“I told her to run somewhere crowded.”
Lily looked embarrassed.
“I saw your picture.”
Vincent frowned.
“Where?”
“In Mama’s folder.”
Claire closed her eyes.
Vincent leaned forward.
“What folder?”
Claire said nothing.
“Claire.”
She finally met his gaze.
“My sister left a safety-deposit box.”
Vincent felt the room change around him.
“I discovered it three weeks ago.”
“What was inside?”
“Records.”
“What kind?”
“Bank statements. Property deeds. Payments. Photographs.”
Vincent stayed completely still.
“Payments from whom?”
“Your father.”
Lily squeezed her mother’s hand.
Claire continued.
“Anna wasn’t stealing from the Morettis.”
Vincent’s eyes hardened.
“She was collecting evidence.”
“Against my father?”
Claire shook her head.
“Against someone using his companies.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Vincent did not believe her.
Claire saw that.
“I swear.”
“Then why attack you?”
“Because they think Anna wrote the name somewhere.”
Vincent glanced at the broken locket.
“And the initials?”
Claire looked confused.
“What initials?”
He showed her.
The color left her face.
“I didn’t do that.”
“Anna?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Claire stared at the letters.
V.M.
Vincent Moretti.
Lily suddenly spoke.
“That wasn’t there yesterday.”
Both adults turned toward her.
“What?” Claire asked.
“I opened it yesterday.”
Lily pointed.
“There were no letters.”
Vincent stood.
Someone had scratched his initials into the locket after Claire had been attacked.
A message.
Not for Claire.
For him.
Rocco appeared at the door.
“We found the sedan.”
“Where?”
“Three blocks away.”
“Driver?”
“Gone.”
“Anything inside?”
Rocco’s face looked different now.
Vincent knew that expression.
Something was wrong.
“What did you find?”
“A phone.”
Vincent waited.
Rocco handed it to him.
The screen displayed one photograph.
Vincent’s restaurant.
Taken from across the street.
Timestamped seven minutes ago.
Underneath it was a message.
SHE RAN TO THE WRONG MAN.
Vincent felt Lily’s hand slip into his.
He looked toward the restaurant entrance.
Then the lights went out.
A crash sounded from the dining room.
Someone screamed.
May you like
And from the darkness came a man’s voice.
“Vincent Moretti.”
