Chapter 1: The Girl Who Saved a Monster
The first time I saved Michael Moretti’s life, he slapped a gun out of his bodyguard’s hand before the man could shoot me.
The second time, I destroyed a champagne glass in front of seventy witnesses, and the most dangerous man in Chicago looked at me as if I were the one person in the room he should fear.
But the third time?
The third time, I would have to decide whether the man who murdered my brother deserved to live.
“Get her away from me!”” Vanessa Bellini screamed.
Two guards grabbed my arms.
My right cheek throbbed where Vanessa had slapped me, and a thin line of blood ran from a cut on my palm. Beneath the chandeliers, guests in designer gowns and tailored tuxedos watched me struggle in my cheap black uniform.
Nobody came to help.
Not the senator standing beside the orchestra. Not the judge who had toasted Michael Moretti ten minutes earlier. Not even the elderly woman whose necklace probably cost more than my apartment.
They all knew who Michael was.
And they knew better than to interfere.
“Let her go,” Michael said.
The guards released me immediately.
Vanessa spun toward him.
“Michael, she attacked me!””
“You slapped her.””
“Because she ruined the celebration!””
Michael glanced at the shattered crystal scattered across the marble floor.
“Celebrations can be replaced.””
His gaze shifted to the tiny glass vial resting beside my shoe.
“Lives cannot.””
Nobody moved.
Then the ballroom doors opened, and a man wearing a rain-soaked suit hurried inside.
He was carrying a photograph.
My brother’s photograph.
I recognized the picture instantly. Luca had taken it three years earlier, standing outside our mother’s old apartment with one arm around my shoulders. He had been twenty-eight, with dark hair, crooked teeth, and the kind of smile that made strangers trust him.
The photograph in the stranger’s hand was different.
Luca was thinner. His face was bruised. His shirt was stained with something dark.
And he was standing beside Michael Moretti.
Behind them, someone had painted five words across a concrete wall.
*SHE DRANK THE WRONG GLASS.*
“Where did you get that?”” I whispered.
The stranger looked at me.
“From the man who took your brother.””
Michael’s expression hardened.
“What is your name?””
“Daniel Cross, sir. I work for your Chicago office.””
“I didn't ask where you work. I asked who gave you that photograph.””
Daniel swallowed.
“A woman called the Bellini residence twenty minutes ago. She said if I wanted to see my daughter alive again, I had to deliver this to you personally.””
Vanessa's face drained of color.
Michael noticed.
So did I.
“Your daughter?”” I asked.
Daniel nodded, his eyes fixed on the photograph.
“She's seventeen. She disappeared yesterday.””
He turned toward Vanessa.
“She was last seen getting into your car.””
A ripple of whispers passed through the ballroom.
Vanessa took a step backward.
“This is a lie.””
Daniel pulled a second photograph from his jacket.
It showed a teenage girl sitting on a concrete floor, her wrists bound with white cloth. Around her neck hung a silver heart pendant.
Vanessa touched the pearl necklace at her throat.
For the first time that night, her hands were shaking.
Michael held out his palm.
Daniel gave him both photographs.
“Seal the exits,” Michael ordered his guards.
“Nobody leaves until I know who is responsible.””
Vanessa grabbed his sleeve.
“You cannot do this to me in front of everyone.””
Michael looked down at her fingers.
“Take your hand off me.””
She did.
I watched him study the pictures, and something cold settled beneath my ribs.
Six weeks earlier, Luca had disappeared after accepting a job as Michael's personal driver.
The police had told me that my brother was probably involved in organized crime. They said he might have fled the country. One detective even suggested Luca had stolen money from the Moretti organization.
But I knew my brother.
Luca had stolen a car once, when he was nineteen. He had returned it the next morning with a full tank of gas and an apology note under the windshield wiper.
He wasn't a criminal.
He was a man who had made one terrible mistake: trusting someone powerful enough to make him disappear.
So I had taken a job at the Bellini estate under a false name.
I had cleaned silverware, polished glasses, and listened through kitchen doors. I had memorized security schedules and learned which guards accepted cash to look the other way.
And three nights ago, I had found Luca's handwriting beneath a loose panel in the servants' pantry.
A single folded note.
*DON'T TRUST MICHAEL.*
I had carried it against my skin ever since.
Now Michael stood three feet away, holding a photograph of my missing brother.
He looked up.
“You,” he said.
My throat tightened.
“Me?””
“What is your name?””
“Anna.””
“Your full name.””
“Anna Reed.””
“That's not what I asked.””
One of his guards stepped forward, but Michael raised a hand to stop him.
“Where did you get the note?””
I felt the folded paper against my ribs.
“I found it.””
“Where?””
“In the kitchen.””
Michael stared at me for several seconds.
Then he did something unexpected.
He removed his jacket and placed it over my shoulders, covering the torn neckline of my uniform and the red mark Vanessa had left on my face.
“Take her upstairs,” he told his head of security.
“Nobody touches her. Nobody speaks to her without my permission.””
Vanessa let out a disbelieving laugh.
“You're protecting her?””
Michael didn't look at her.
“I'm protecting my investigation.””
Two guards escorted me through a side door.
As we crossed the corridor, I glanced back.
Vanessa stood beneath the golden chandelier, surrounded by people who had spent years praising her family.
She wasn't looking at Michael anymore.
She was looking directly at me.
Her lips moved.
I couldn't hear her over the orchestra restarting.
But I understood the words.
You're already dead.
The guards took me to a private bedroom overlooking the estate's gardens. One remained outside the door while the other searched the room.
I waited until they finished.
Then I pulled Luca's note from my uniform and unfolded it beneath the bedside lamp.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
But I had never noticed the faint indentation on the back of the paper.
I tilted it toward the light.
A second message emerged, pressed into the fibers by whoever had written on the sheet above it.
*IF YOU FIND ME, ASK MICHAEL WHAT HAPPENED AT SAINT AGNES.*
Before I could read it again, the bedroom door opened.
Michael entered alone.
He had removed his tie. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, and there was a fresh cut across one knuckle.
He looked exhausted.
Not frightened.
Not angry.
Exhausted.
“Saint Agnes,” I whispered.
His entire body went still.
For the first time since I had met him, Michael Moretti looked as though someone had reached inside his chest and closed a fist around his heart.
“Where did you hear that name?””
I held up the note.
“My brother wrote it.””
Michael closed the door behind him.
Then he locked it.
“Anna,” he said quietly, “if Luca sent you here, he didn't send you to save me.””
He reached into his pocket and placed a small photograph on the bed.
It showed a burning building.
A hospital sign hung crooked above the entrance.
Saint Agnes Medical Center.
And standing in front of the flames was a younger Michael Moretti, his hands covered in blood.
“Your brother sent you here,” Michael said, “because he wants you to finish what he started.””
He turned toward the window.
“Tell me something, Anna. Did Luca ever tell you who died in that fire?””
I shook my head.
Michael looked back at me.
“My wife.””
May you like
Then he added the words that made my knees weak.
“And the little girl I buried beside her was never my daughter.””
