Chapter 3 - Into the Rain and the Shadows of Union Station
The black Maybach sliced through the rain-slicked pavement of Lake Shore Drive like a razor through silk. Inside the vehicle, the leather seats were supple and heated, but the atmosphere was dense enough to choke on.
Luca sat in the back seat next to me, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he stared out the tinted window at the blurred neon lights of the city. The city skyline rose like jagged teeth against the bruised, stormy sky. In his right hand, he still clutched the small white envelope his mother had given me, turning it over and over between his long, scarred fingers.
“Driver,” Luca said, his voice cutting through the hum of the climate control. “Push seventy. If we miss the 8:45 express to Peoria, I’m taking the helicopter.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti,” the driver replied, his eyes darting nervously to the rearview mirror.
I sat quietly in the corner of the plush seat, smoothing down the hem of my simple black uniform dress. I was twenty-eight years old, carrying the crushing weight of medical debt for my father’s failing kidneys and a dead-end existence in a city that chewed people up and spit them out into the Chicago River. A month ago, I wouldn't have dared to look a man like Luca Moretti in the eye, let alone hand him a bowl of soup during an engagement party attended by half the city's power brokers.
“Why did you do it, Emma?” Luca asked suddenly, without turning his head.
I swallowed hard. “Sir?”
“The soup.” He finally turned his dark, intense gaze toward me. The amber light from a streetlamp flickered across his sharp cheekbones and the faint scar running along his jawline. “You risked your job, your livelihood, and your safety in front of thirty dangerous people just to bring an old woman’s broth upstairs. You could have just told me quietly in the hallway. Why make a scene in front of Vanessa and the board members?”
I met his gaze, finding an unexpected steadiness in my own voice.
“Because quiet messages get lost, Mr. Moretti,” I said softly. “If I had pulled you aside in the hallway, you would have nodded, told a security guard to give her a hundred-dollar bill and a cab voucher, and gone right back to your champagne toast. You would have forgotten about her within twenty minutes. But a chipped white bowl on a silver-plated table? That’s something nobody in that room could ignore. Especially not the woman who thought she had successfully erased your past.”
Luca stared at me for a long, silent moment. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth twitched upward in the ghost of a humorless, exhausted smile.
“You have a dangerous tongue, Emma Carter,” he murmured. “Remind me to give you a raise tomorrow—assuming we still have a mansion to come back to.”
“Assuming Vanessa doesn't burn it to the ground for the insurance money,” I added dryly.
A low, gravelly chuckle escaped his chest. It was the first time I had ever heard him laugh in the seven months I had worked at the Gold Coast estate.
Within fifteen minutes, the massive armored car slid to a halt outside the wrought-iron gates of Chicago’s Union Station. The grand neoclassical terminal loomed over us, its massive stone pillars streaked with rain. Commuters in trench coats hurried across the wet plazas, clutching briefcases and umbrellas, desperate to escape the biting Midwestern chill.
“Stay close,” Luca commanded, stepping out into the downpour.
Before I could reach for the umbrella in the door pocket, one of his bodyguards—a hulking man named Viktor with a broken nose—was already holding a heavy black umbrella over my head, shielding me from the driving rain.
We rushed through the towering arched doors of the station. The cavernous interior smelled of old coffee, floor wax, and damp wool. Underneath the cavernous vaulted ceiling and the giant clock, hundreds of travelers bustled toward their respective gates.
“Check the departures for the Peoria line,” Luca ordered Viktor, his eyes scanning the sea of coats and luggage. “Platform 4. Now.”
We didn't need to check the board.
As we pushed past the central rotunda, near the entrance to the southbound regional trains, I spotted a familiar faded blue cardigan sitting on a wooden bench beside a battered leather suitcase with a broken clasp.
May you like
Mrs. Moretti sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, staring down at her worn-out shoes, looking smaller and more fragile than she had in the kitchen.
“Ma,” Luca whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he broke into a fast, long-legged stride toward her.
