Chapter 9
Gabriel remained by the door.
Luca looked at Sophia.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She began crying again.
Not loudly.
The tears of a child who believes an adult’s wound belongs to her.
“You already looked broken.”
Luca crossed the room and knelt beside her.
“You never have to protect me from the truth.”
“But everybody does.”
The sentence struck harder than accusation.
His eyes closed.
When they opened, he looked older.
“I’m sorry.”
He rested his forehead against her hand.
“I am so sorry.”
Sophia looked toward me.
“Can Hannah come home with us?”
Luca’s eyes lifted.
The request placed me between the child and the man whose businesses appeared in federal files and whispered conversations throughout Chicago.
I had served his galas for three years while avoiding his table.
Now his daughter held my hand as though letting go might return us both to the river.
“I have an early shift,” I said.
Sophia’s face fell.
“I can visit tomorrow.”
“You promise?”
Luca flinched at the word.
I answered carefully.
“Yes. I promise.”
Luca sent a car for me the following afternoon.
I refused it.
A black Moretti sedan waited outside my apartment anyway.
I called the number on the cream envelope delivered with it.
Gabriel answered.
“You will use the car.”
“No.”
“The estate is not accessible by public transportation.”
“I have a vehicle.”
“A twelve-year-old Honda with a cracked rear light.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“You investigated me.”
“Security verified you.”
“Those are different verbs pretending to be the same thing.”
A pause.
“You are entering Mr. Moretti’s home.”
“At his daughter’s invitation.”
“The distinction is irrelevant.”
May you like
“It is relevant to me.”
I drove myself.
