Dante Moretti stood over her, his gray eyes cold and calculating. He was a man who noticed everything—the way her breathing hitched in her sleep, the fraying edges of her oversized uniform, and the red-stamped envelope protruding from her pocket. He had expected an assassin or a corporate spy, but instead, he found a girl who looked as though she had been ground down by the very city he ruled. He pulled the notice from her pocket, his fingers brushing the worn fabric. Thirty thousand dollars. A pittance to him, a death sentence for her.
He could have signaled his security team to drag her out, to ensure she never drew a breath in his building again. But Dante was a man of patterns, and he saw an opportunity. He didn’t believe in charity, but he understood the immense power of a debt repaid. He walked to his desk, poured a glass of amber liquid, and watched her. When she finally stirred, the terror in her eyes was instantaneous. She scrambled to her feet, her face pale, her hands trembling as she realized exactly whose office she had invaded.
“Mr. Moretti, I—I’m so sorry,” she stammered, backing toward the door. “I didn’t mean to—I just needed a moment. I’ll leave. Please, just don’t fire me.”
Dante didn’t move. He simply held up the envelope. The color drained from her face entirely. “This is your life, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice a low, dangerous velvet. “A house, a sister, a crushing weight of interest that will never allow you to breathe. You think you’re invisible, Tessa, but you’ve been standing in the center of my room for twenty minutes. Nothing is invisible to me.”
He walked around the desk, closing the distance between them until she could smell the sharp scent of gun oil and expensive cologne. He placed the envelope on the mahogany surface. “I don’t give money away. I trade. You owe thirty thousand to a bank that will discard you the moment you fail. I am offering you a different kind of debt. One that comes with protection, but one that requires you to belong to me in ways you cannot yet imagine.”
Tessa looked at the envelope, then at the man who held the keys to her survival. She knew the stories about Moretti—that he was a monster, a ghost, a man who owned the shadows of Chicago. But as she looked at the red stamp on her final notice, she realized she was already standing on the edge of an abyss. If she walked out that door, she lost everything. If she stayed, she might lose herself. She took a shaky breath, her gaze locking with his, and in that moment, the waitress ceased to exist. The game had begun.