Chapter 1
An eleven-year-old girl walked straight into my private dining room, slipped past men who terrified half of Chicago, and asked me for the food I was about to throw away. My guards moved to grab her, but when I saw the starving baby trembling in her arms, I did something that made every person in that room freeze.
“Sir... could we have what’s left on your plate?”
The words cut through the VIP room so cleanly that even the pianist stumbled over his notes.
I slowly lowered my wineglass.
My name is Dominic Moretti. For twenty-two years, I’d trained people to understand one thing about me: nobody approached me without permission. Nobody interrupted my dinner. And absolutely nobody got close enough to ask me for anything.
Yet there she stood.
She couldn’t have been older than eleven. Her soaked gray sweater clung to her narrow shoulders, and melting snow dripped from strands of hair pulled painfully tight behind her head.
In her arms was a baby.
The child stirred beneath a worn blanket and made a weak, hungry sound. The girl tightened her grip, trying to soothe him, but her blue eyes betrayed her.
They kept drifting toward my untouched roasted duck.
My two bodyguards moved instantly.
“Get her out.”
I lifted one finger.
They stopped.
The pianist froze. A waiter holding a folded napkin went rigid beside a marble column. Suddenly, the entire room seemed afraid to breathe.
I stared at the girl.
Most grown men couldn’t hold my gaze for three seconds. She didn’t look away.
“Who let you in here?” I asked.
“No one, sir.”
Her voice shook, but she forced the words out.
“I’m sorry. We don’t want money.”
One guard stepped closer. “Mr. Moretti, I’ll handle this.”
“I said stop.”
My voice was quiet.
That made him obey faster.
I looked at the baby again. His tiny face was pale, and the girl instinctively shielded him from me as though she expected someone to take him away.
Then I reached across the table and pulled out the chair opposite mine.
The wooden legs scraped harshly across the marble.
“Sit.”
Her eyes widened.
“I... I only wanted the leftovers.”
“I heard what you wanted.”
She remained standing.
That irritated me more than I expected.
“Rosa.”
My waitress appeared immediately. “Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Bring her chicken, bread, and hot soup. Oatmeal for the baby. Thin, no salt. Warm milk too.”
Rosa stared at me.
Everyone did.
The girl’s lips parted, but before she could speak, I noticed something beneath the sleeve of her sweater.
A dark bruise circled her wrist.
Then she saw me looking at it.
Her face changed instantly.
She pulled her sleeve down and stepped backward, clutching the baby tighter.
“Who did that to you?” I asked.
She went completely still.
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And suddenly, I realized she hadn’t come into my restaurant merely because she was hungry.
She was hiding from someone.
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