The Night Chicago’s Most Feared Man Called Me His Future Wife

Penelope Gallagher gripped a black check folder while a woman at Table Twelve whispered, “Maybe find a job where you actually belong.”

Lorenzo Moretti entered the restaurant and noticed the folded hospital bill sticking from Penelope’s apron.

A red number had been circled beside the balance.

$187,400.

Lorenzo realized she had never been working for herself.

At 5:03 that evening, nearly three hours before he walked into the restaurant, Lorenzo Moretti had made a decision he did not often make.

He had followed someone he trusted.

Not because he believed Penelope Gallagher was stealing from him.

That would almost have been easier.

For two years, Penelope had served as executive administrative coordinator at Moretti Holdings, a position that placed her within reach of information capable of moving millions of dollars. She handled contracts before board meetings. She knew which attorneys Lorenzo called when problems became serious. She scheduled private meetings no newspaper ever heard about. She had access to internal calendars, confidential acquisition files, and a private elevator code that fewer than twelve people knew.

She had never betrayed him.

That was exactly why her behavior had begun bothering him.

Penelope had always been punctual.

Now she arrived at 5:45 every morning.

She had always eaten lunch at her desk.

Now she barely ate at all.

She had always stayed until the work was finished, even if that meant seven or eight in the evening.

For the last six weeks, she disappeared at exactly five.

Not 5:02.

Not 5:05.

Five.

The first time Lorenzo noticed, he assumed she had an appointment.

The seventh time, he remembered it.

The twenty-third time, he ordered his driver to follow her.

“Not close,” Lorenzo had said from the rear seat of the black sedan.

His driver, Marco, glanced at him through the mirror.

“You think she’s meeting somebody?”

“I think I want to know where she goes.”

Marco knew better than to ask another question.

They followed Penelope’s aging silver Honda through downtown traffic.

She did not go home.

She did not meet a lover.

She did not visit a bar.

She drove to a parking garage behind Bellavista, one of Chicago’s most expensive restaurants.

Twenty minutes later, Lorenzo watched through the tinted window as Penelope emerged from the employee entrance.

She had changed.

The polished office clothes she wore at Moretti Holdings were gone.

In their place was a navy server’s dress, practical black shoes, and a small apron tied around her waist.

For the first time in years, Lorenzo Moretti had been genuinely confused.

“She works here?” Marco asked.

Apparently.

Lorenzo checked his watch.

5:41 p.m.

Penelope had worked almost eleven hours for him already.

Now she was beginning another shift.

“Find out how long.”

Marco made one call.

Seven minutes later, the answer came.

“Five weeks.”

Lorenzo looked back toward the restaurant.

“Every night?”

“Tuesday through Sunday. Sometimes doubles on Saturday.”

Something cold settled in his chest.

Penelope earned a good salary.

Moretti Holdings paid its senior staff better than most Chicago firms, partly because Lorenzo demanded exceptional loyalty and partly because he had learned that poorly paid employees eventually sold themselves to somebody else.

Penelope had never asked for a raise.

Never requested an advance.

Never mentioned debt.

Never complained.

Yet she was working eighteen-hour days.

“Why?” Lorenzo asked.

Marco had no answer.

So Lorenzo went inside.

Bellavista occupied the thirty-eighth floor of a glass tower overlooking the Chicago River. The dining room glowed beneath enormous crystal chandeliers. White roses sat between polished silverware. Wine bottles cost more than some people’s monthly rent.

Lorenzo knew the room immediately.

Not because he ate there often.

Because he knew half the people inside.

Politicians.

Developers.

Bankers.

Men who shook his hand publicly and feared refusing his calls privately.

The Moretti name had carried weight in Chicago long before Lorenzo inherited it.

Some called his family businessmen.

Some called them something darker.

Lorenzo rarely corrected either version.

His legitimate holdings included commercial real estate, logistics, hotels, private security, and construction.

What existed in the shadows beyond those companies depended on whom you asked.

The truth was complicated.

His reputation was not.

Chicago feared Lorenzo Moretti.

Penelope apparently did not.

That had been one of the first things he liked about her.

He spotted her near the far windows.

She was carrying three plates.

She looked exhausted.

Not office tired.

Not the tiredness created by long meetings and bad coffee.

She looked as though her body was surviving on orders her mind kept giving it.

Lorenzo took one step toward her.

Then he heard laughter.

A table of six occupied the center of the dining room.

Three men.

Three women.

All dressed expensively.

Penelope had just placed an entrée in front of a blonde woman wearing diamonds large enough to be seen from across the room.

“I said sauce on the side.”

Penelope stopped.

“I’m sorry. I can have the kitchen remake it immediately.”

“You said that ten minutes ago about my salad.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman looked at Penelope’s uniform.

Then at her face.

Then at her body.

Her mouth curved.

“Maybe this job is a little too demanding for you.”

A man beside her laughed.

Penelope’s cheeks reddened.

“I’ll replace the dish.”

“You people always say that.”

Penelope’s hand tightened slightly around the tray.

Lorenzo knew that movement.

At the office, she did the same thing with a pen whenever someone irritated her during a meeting.

But tonight she lowered her head.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The blonde woman leaned back.

“Honestly, if this place is hiring anyone off the street now, perhaps we should reconsider coming.”

A second woman murmured something.

The table laughed again.

Penelope turned.

Her eyes landed on Lorenzo.

She stopped so suddenly that another server almost walked into her.

For one second, neither moved.

Her expression changed from confusion to disbelief.

Then fear.

Not fear of Lorenzo himself.

Fear of being seen.

That bothered him more.

He walked toward her.

“Mr. Moretti?”

Her voice was barely audible.

The table behind her went quiet.

Lorenzo ignored them.

“What are you doing here?” Penelope asked.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Her gaze dropped.

“I work here.”

“I can see that.”

“I mean—”

“You’ve already worked eleven hours today.”

Her face tightened.

“Please.”

One word.

A warning.

Not here.

Lorenzo understood immediately.

He lowered his voice.

“Are you in trouble?”

“No.”

“Penelope.”

“I said no.”

That was when the blonde woman interrupted.

“Excuse me.”

Lorenzo slowly looked toward her.

She smiled, apparently unaware that the atmosphere around the table had shifted.

“Your waitress seems distracted.”

Penelope closed her eyes for half a second.

Lorenzo recognized the man seated beside the blonde woman.

Mitchell Barrington.

Commercial developer.

Two failed casinos.

One federal investigation that had mysteriously gone nowhere.

Barrington recognized Lorenzo at the same moment.

His smile disappeared.

“Moretti.”

“Mitchell.”

The blonde woman glanced between them.

“You know each other?”

Barrington stood.

“Lorenzo, we were just—”

“I heard what you were doing.”

Nobody laughed now.

Penelope whispered, “Please don’t.”

Lorenzo looked at her.

That was when he noticed the folded paper sticking from her apron.

A hospital logo was visible.

Northwestern Memorial.

Below it, a red number.

$187,400.

He had seen enough medical invoices during his mother’s final year to know exactly what he was looking at.

His attention returned to Penelope.

“Who is sick?”

Her face lost its color.

“No one.”

He reached gently toward the paper.

She moved back.

“Lorenzo.”

It was the first time she had used his first name outside the office.

The room seemed strangely quiet.

“Who?” he asked again.

Penelope’s eyes shone.

She looked toward the diners.

Toward her manager.

Toward the kitchen.

Anywhere except him.

“My brother.”

The answer came so softly he almost did not hear it.

“What happened?”

“He needs treatment.”

“What kind?”

“I’m not discussing this here.”

The blonde woman sighed theatrically.

“Can someone please bring us another server?”

Something in Lorenzo hardened.

He turned.

The woman finally seemed to realize that everyone around her had become uncomfortable.

Lorenzo looked at the plate.

Then at Penelope.

Then at the woman.

“Apologize.”

The woman blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“To her.”

“Lorenzo,” Penelope whispered.

He did not move.

The blonde gave an incredulous laugh.

“I don’t know who you think—”

“Her name is Penelope Gallagher.”

Barrington grabbed the woman’s wrist beneath the table.

“Caroline.”

She pulled free.

“What?”

“Apologize.”

Caroline stared at him.

Now she was angry.

At being corrected.

At being embarrassed.

At discovering that the waitress she had treated like furniture somehow mattered to a man powerful enough to frighten her husband.

“I was dissatisfied with the service.”

“You mocked her.”

“I made an observation.”

“You humiliated her because you believed there would be no consequence.”

Caroline’s face flushed.

Penelope stepped closer.

“Mr. Moretti, stop.”

He looked down at her.

“Why?”

“Because I need this job.”

There it was.

The entire truth of her situation hidden in six words.

She could not afford pride.

Could not afford conflict.

Could not afford to walk away from people who treated her badly.

Because somewhere in Chicago, someone she loved was sick enough that $187,400 had become more important than dignity.

Lorenzo understood humiliation.

He had inflicted it.

He had survived it.

He had never tolerated watching it happen to someone under his protection.

And whether Penelope knew it or not, she had been under his protection since the day she walked into his office and calmly informed a vice president twice her age that his numbers were wrong.

Lorenzo reached inside his jacket.

Several diners stiffened.

Penelope’s eyes widened.

But he did not produce a weapon.

He removed a small velvet box.

Penelope stared.

He had carried it for three months.

Not for her.

Originally.

The ring had belonged to his grandmother.

His aunt had returned it to him after the old woman died and told him that one day he would know who should wear it.

Lorenzo had kept it in the inner pocket of the coat he wore to important meetings.

A superstition.

A memory.

Nothing more.

Until now.

He opened the box.

A diamond rested beneath the restaurant lights.

Penelope went completely still.

“Lorenzo.”

He heard the warning.

He ignored it.

Caroline’s mouth fell open.

Barrington looked as though someone had told him the building was on fire.

Lorenzo stepped closer to Penelope.

“Show some respect,” he said without looking away from her.

No one spoke.

“You’re speaking to my future wife.”

Penelope’s hand flew to her mouth.

The entire restaurant froze.

Even Lorenzo seemed momentarily surprised by his own words.

He had intended to protect her.

He had not intended to say that.

But once spoken, the sentence did not feel false.

Penelope stared at him.

Her breathing shook.

“Lorenzo… why?”

He lowered the ring box.

“Because no one humiliates you again.”

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Then Penelope’s shock changed.

Not to joy.

To anger.

She grabbed his wrist.

“Kitchen. Now.”

A few diners gasped.

Marco, standing near the entrance, nearly smiled.

No one ordered Lorenzo Moretti anywhere.

Penelope did.

And Lorenzo followed.

The kitchen exploded with sound around them.

Pans.

Orders.

Steam.

Servers weaving between stations.

Penelope pulled him past the dish area and through a service door into a narrow corridor.

The moment it closed, she rounded on him.

“What was that?”

“You were being humiliated.”

“So you announced that I’m marrying you?”

“It ended the problem.”

“It created ten new ones.”

“You needed help.”

“I needed them to stop insulting me, not a fictional fiancé.”

Lorenzo studied her.

“Is it fictional?”

Penelope stared.

“That is not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“You followed me.”

“Yes.”

“You had me followed?”

“I followed you.”

“That is somehow worse.”

“You were behaving differently.”

“So you investigated me?”

“I was concerned.”

“You were suspicious.”

“At first.”

Her expression changed.

That admission hurt.

Lorenzo regretted it immediately.

Penelope folded her arms.

“My brother has acute lymphoblastic leukemia.”

The anger left Lorenzo’s face.

She continued before he could respond.

“His name is Owen. He’s twenty-two. He was in remission. It came back four months ago.”

Lorenzo said nothing.

“The standard treatments stopped working. There’s a clinical program we’ve been trying to get him into. Insurance denied part of it. There are travel costs, private testing, medication, things they call experimental because apparently that makes it easier to tell someone they might die if they’re poor.”

Her voice broke on the last word.

She looked away.

Lorenzo had seen Penelope handle hostile executives without flinching.

He had watched her face down attorneys threatening lawsuits.

He had never seen her cry.

She did not cry now.

That somehow made it worse.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“I could have helped.”

“That’s exactly why.”

He frowned.

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do.”

She looked back at him.

“You help people, and then they belong to you.”

The words struck harder than she intended.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.

“That’s what people say about you,” Penelope continued. “You fix problems. You call someone. Money moves. Doors open. And afterward everybody remembers who made it happen.”

“You think I would hold your brother’s life over you?”

“I don’t know.”

He stepped back.

Penelope saw the change in his expression.

For a moment, she wanted to take the words back.

Then the service door opened.

Her manager appeared.

“Penelope.”

She straightened.

“Yes?”

The man looked from her to Lorenzo.

“You need to come with me.”