Chapter 4
He came back two nights later. And the night after that. Always alone. Always her section.
He ordered different things. He drank expensive wine. He read his book. And he watched.
He never said another personal word to her. He simply watched, and the watching did its work.
The staff began to fear her section. The other patrons gave his table a wide berth, and hers with it. Her tips from the surrounding tables dwindled, because people were afraid to be near her, afraid to be associated with her — as if she had been marked.
Moretti, of course, always overpaid. His tips covered the deficit exactly.
But it wasn’t money. It was a chain. He was isolating her, making her world smaller and smaller until the only person left in it was him.
Two weeks after the first night, the scaffolding of Bella’s life came down.
She arrived at St. Jude’s on a bright Wednesday morning with coffee in her hand, ready to sit with Marco through his treatment. Instead, Dr. Lena Hansen met her in the lobby.
“Isabella. Can we talk in my office?”
The dread came over her instantly. “Is he bad?”
“Marco is physically fine. He’s been discharged.”
“Discharged? He has treatment today.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Dr. Hansen guided her into a small, sterile office and closed the door. “He’s been non-compliant for weeks. He’s been checking in for his appointments and then leaving. He hasn’t received an injection in almost a month.”
Bella’s world tilted. “What? That’s impossible. I paid for it.”
“I know you did.” The doctor hesitated. Then she pushed a crumpled piece of paper across the desk — a receipt from a check-cashing place on the west side. “One of the nurses saw this. Isabella — Marco doesn’t have an autoimmune disorder. We ran the full panel again last month. He’s anemic. He’s malnourished.”
She stopped.
“But the sickness he’s been describing? It’s withdrawal.”
“Withdrawal from what?”
“We believe he has a severe gambling addiction.”
The words did not make sense. Gambling. Marco. Her brother, who had been dying in a hospital bed, who had held her hand and told her he was scared.
“He’s been faking the symptoms to get the money from you,” Dr. Hansen said gently. “The experimental treatments were a story. He’s been taking your money and losing it.”
Bella stared at the receipt.
The thousands of dollars. The double shifts. The grinding, constant fear. All of it, a lie.
She stumbled out of the hospital into daylight that felt obscene.
She went to their apartment because there was nowhere else to go. Marco was there, sitting on the couch, shaking, his eyes wide.
“Bella. I can explain.”
“You’ve been lying to me.” Her voice came out a whisper, the numbness giving way to a white-hot, hollow rage. “All this time. The hospital. The treatments. All of it.”
“I got in deep, Bells.” Tears were streaming down his face. “It started small. Just a few bucks. But then I lost. I tried to win it back. I lost more. I took the money. I know. I just needed to get even. I was going to pay it all back.”
“Pay it back with *what*, Marco?” The sound tore out of her throat. “I’ve been killing myself. I faced *him* for you.”
“I know. I know. But Bella — they’re going to hurt me.”
“Who? Who is going to hurt you?”
“The man I owe. He’s not a bank.” Marco’s hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold them still. “I owe him fifty thousand dollars. He gave me until tonight. He said if I don’t have it, he’s going to break my legs. Or worse.”
Fifty thousand dollars.
The number was so astronomical it was almost comical. It was a death sentence.
“Who, Marco? Who is it?”
“A loan shark. He works for a man named Bianke.”
Bella’s heart stopped.
Bianke.
Salvatore Bianke. The man from the restaurant. The man Moretti had humiliated in front of three hundred people.
It all clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Marco hadn’t stumbled into debt. He had stumbled into a rival family’s territory. And Moretti knew. *The hyenas come.* He hadn’t been making a threat.
He had been telling her the future.
He knew about Marco’s gambling. He knew who he owed. He had been waiting for this.
“Stay here,” Bella said, and her voice was dangerously calm. “Don’t move. Don’t answer the door. I’ll fix this.”
She ran out of the apartment with her mind racing.
She had no money. No options. There was only one person in the city who could fix this — one person who sat at the center of this spider’s web.
She didn’t even know where he lived.
She ran the two miles to Luchia’s and burst through the doors, hours before her shift, hair wild, face pale.
“Where is he?” she demanded of Henderson.
“Who?”
“Moretti. Aleandro Moretti. Where do I find him?”
“I don’t— I swear I don’t know—”
“You’re lying.”
“Bella?” Chloe’s voice, from behind her. “What’s wrong?”
“He knows. He *knew*. He’s been playing with me—”
She was half crying, half screaming. She ran back out onto the street.
She stood on the curb, gasping, the city closing in on her, and she did not know what to do next.
Then a long black sedan slid to a silent stop in front of her.
The back window lowered.
Aleandro Moretti looked out at her, his expression unreadable.
“Get in, Isabella,” he said, as calmly as if he were asking her for the time.
May you like
She didn’t hesitate. She pulled the door open and slid onto the plush leather.
The car smelled like him. Sandalwood and money.
