Chapter 1 - The Locked Garage
Rain whipped against the leaded-glass windows of the Moretti estate, blurring the sprawling lawns of Oakbrook into a smeared, gray watercolor. The autumn storm had rolled in fast, cooling the air until every breath in the service corridors tasted like wet earth and diesel exhaust.
I smoothed down the front of my black housekeeping apron, my hands shaking slightly. I’d worked at the estate for eight months, but nights like tonight always made my stomach knot into a cold, hard lump.
Twenty-six guests were currently seated around the thirty-foot mahogany table in the grand dining room. Chicago’s elite—corrupt judges, real estate tycoons, shipping magnates, and men whose tailored tuxedos hid silver-plated sidearms—were sipping vintage Dom Pérignon in honor of Luca Moretti’s engagement.
At thirty-four, Luca Moretti was the undisputed ruler of the city's underbelly. The papers called him an elusive venture capitalist; the streets called him Il Fenice, the Phoenix, because every time federal prosecutors thought they had buried him, he rose higher, wealthier, and more untouchable than before.
He was a man of terrifying silence. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't throw tantrums. He simply looked at a person with eyes as grey and flat as winter ice, and by morning, that person’s business, reputation, or life had simply ceased to exist.
Yet, despite his terrifying reputation, I had never feared Luca Moretti.
Because every morning at six o'clock, before the mansion woke up, I would see him standing in the formal rose garden wearing a faded sweatshirt, holding a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand and throwing a worn tennis ball with the other for Bruno.
Bruno was a twelve-year-old German shepherd with a silver muzzle, hip dysplasia, and eyes full of deep, ancient devotion. He had belonged to Luca’s father, Vincenzo, who had been killed in a car bombing a decade ago. Bruno was the last living thread connecting Luca to the man who built the Moretti empire. He was the only living creature in Chicago allowed to rest his heavy, graying head on Luca’s six-thousand-dollar Italian leather sofas.
When Luca had left for a five-day business trip to Miami on Tuesday, he had kissed the dog's head, left explicit instructions with the head chef regarding Bruno's boiled chicken and rice diet, and promised to be back in time for his engagement dinner.
On Wednesday, Vanessa Bellini—Luca’s twenty-six-year-old fiancée and the daughter of a wealthy hotel developer—had announced to the staff that Bruno had taken a sudden turn for the worse. By Thursday, she told us the vet had come and gone, and that Bruno was dead.
She had even shed a few polished, theatrical tears into a silk handkerchief, instructing the groundskeepers to dispose of his bedding and toys.
I had wept in the scullery, my heart breaking for Luca, who was off in Florida unaware that his father's dog was gone.
Now, it was Saturday night. The engagement party was in full swing.
I had been heading to the laundry room to collect extra linen napkins when I took the long way around the back courtyard. The storm was rattling the loose shutters of the old maintenance garage—a disused stone structure built near the estate’s outer perimeter that hadn't housed a vehicle in thirty years.
Above the howl of the wind and the rhythmic patter of rain against the cobblestones, I heard a sound that made my boots freeze against the flagstones.
Scratch. Scratch. Whimper.
It wasn't a raccoon. It was too heavy, too deliberate.
My pulse spiked. I looked over my shoulder toward the brightly lit mansion windows, where shadows of tuxedoed guests swirled behind silk curtains. Then I stepped off the stone path and jogged through the freezing rain toward the heavy oak door of the old garage.
It was secured with a rusty brass padlock. I grabbed the latch and rattled it.
"Hello?" I called out, pressing my ear against the wet wood. "Is someone in there?"
A faint, trembling bark answered me—a hoarse, ragged sound that ended in a painful coughing fit.
My stomach dropped into my shoes. I knew that bark. I had heard it every morning for eight months.
"Bruno?" I whispered, my voice cracking.
Another whimpering scrape against the bottom of the door confirmed it.
Panic, hot and blinding, surged through my veins. I looked around the muddy courtyard until I spotted an rusty iron tire iron leaning against a stack of discarded firewood. I grabbed it, jammed the flat end beneath the rusted padlock latch, and threw my entire weight against the metal.
With a loud, metallic SNAP, the rotten screws gave way. The lock clattered against the cobblestones.
I shoved the heavy door open and stepped into the pitch-black darkness of the garage. The smell hit me immediately—damp concrete, stale urine, gasoline, and rotting straw.
"Bruno?"
From the far corner, beside an empty plastic water bowl, a massive dark shape struggled to rise. His back legs trembled violently, giving out beneath him twice before he managed to drag himself toward me across the cold concrete floor.
I dropped to my knees, completely ignoring the dirt ruining my black uniform dress, and threw my arms around his thick neck.
He was soaking wet, shivering uncontrollably, and his ribs protruded painfully against his skin. His leather collar was gone, leaving a raw, red band of chafed skin around his neck. When he recognized my face, his tail gave three faint, thumping wags against the concrete floor.
"Oh, sweet boy," I sobbed, tears blurring my vision as I rubbed his cold ears. "What did she do to you? What did she do?"
He nudged my cheek with his dry, hot nose, whining softly. He was burning up with fever, dehydrated, and so weak he couldn't even stand without his legs buckling.
I didn't think. I didn't consider the consequences, or my job, or the fact that I was a nobody making fifteen dollars an hour while the people inside owned half the judges in Cook County. All I knew was that Luca Moretti’s dog was dying in the dark while his owner drank champagne twenty yards away.
I scooped my arms beneath Bruno's seventy-pound body. My muscles screamed under the sudden weight, but adrenaline fueled me as I hauled him into my arms, cradling him against my chest like a oversized toddler.
I stepped out of the garage into the pouring rain and started walking toward the mansion.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The voice was cold, sharp, and cut through the sound of the rain like a razor blade.
I stopped near the service entrance, water streaming down my face.
Vanessa Bellini stood beneath the porch awning, wrapped in a plush cream-colored fur coat over her dazzling red gown. She held a long, thin cigarette between her manicured fingers, her dark eyes flashing with pure fury.
"Mrs. Bellini," I panted, my arms quivering as I held the heavy dog. "He's alive. Bruno is alive! He was locked in the old garage! I need to get him inside, get him warm, and call a vet—"
"Put that animal down, Emma," Vanessa snapped, stepping off the porch into the rain, her expensive designer heels sinking into the wet gravel.
"He's sick, ma'am! He has a fever and—"
"I said put him down!" She reached into her leather clutch, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and thrust it toward my wet face. "You take this money, you go out the back gate, and you keep your mouth shut. A driver is coming to collect him in twenty minutes."
I stared at the green bill in her hand, then up into her flawless, heartlessly cold face.
"You lied," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "You told Mr. Moretti he died while he was in Florida."
Vanessa’s eyes narrowed into slit-like embers. "Mr. Moretti doesn't need a filthy, dying beast shedding on his carpets and dragging down his mood during our engagement month. He has a business to run, and I am streamlining his life. Now take the money and get rid of him before I ruin your life."
My jaw tightened. My arms felt like they were going to tear out of their sockets, but I gripped Bruno tighter against my chest.
"No," I said.
Vanessa looked stunned. "What did you just say to me?"
"No," I repeated, stepping past her onto the kitchen steps. "I'm taking him to his owner."
"If you walk through that door, you are fired!" she shrieked, grabbing at my apron sleeve. "Do you hear me? I will make sure you never work in this city again! I'll have your family thrown out on the street!"
I yanked my arm away, threw my weight against the heavy oak kitchen door, and burst into the service hallway.
May you like
The sounds of string violins, laughter, and clinking crystal hit me immediately.
I didn't stop in the kitchen. I didn't stop in the pantry. I marched straight through the double swinging doors, past two terrified young catering staff, and stepped right out into the center of the grand dining room.
