Chapter 4 - The Price of a MiracleI didn't take his hand. Instead, I scrambled back another foot until my spine hit the cold wooden baseboard of the wall.
Lorenzo didn't press. He let his hand drop slowly to his side, his grey eyes observing me with a clinical, unnerving curiosity that made me feel like an interesting specimen under a microscope.
"You're not part of the internal security detail," he noted, his voice regaining more of its natural baritone with every passing minute, though the rasp remained. "And you certainly don't move like an assassin."
"I told you," I said, my voice shaking as I hugged my knees to my chest. "I'm a catering temp for Elite Palate. My name is Mia Sutton. I work sixty hours a week at Hal's Diner in Yonkers, and I only took this midnight gig because my brother Tommy needs an oxygen concentrator refill that costs more than my monthly rent."
Lorenzo walked slowly over to the mahogany armchair, lowering himself into it with a slight grimace as his stiff muscles protested. He picked up a crystal decanter of water from the side table, poured a glass with trembling fingers, and drank deeply.
"A waitress," he mused, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ninety-nine thousand doctors, neurologists, pharmacologists, and spiritual healers smuggled into this compound by my inner circle, spending millions of dollars in research grants... and the only thing that restarts my nervous system is a clumsy girl tripping over a dessert cart."
"It wasn't a spiritual healing," I muttered, staring at the floorboards. "It was an accident. A very stupid, highly terrifying accident."
"Accidents don't exist in my world, Mia Sutton," Lorenzo said softly, leaning his head back against the leather cushion. "Every movement has an architect. Every variable has a purpose. The question is: what is yours?"
Before I could answer, the digital keypad by the door beeped loudly.
The heavy steel door swung open, and Mateo strode into the room, followed closely by a frantic-looking man in an expensive tailored suit who looked like he was about to vomit from sheer terror.
It was Julian Vance—Romano’s primary corporate attorney and the senior executive who had been running the daily operations of the Romano shipping empire while the boss lay comatose.
Vance stopped dead in his tracks.
The color drained completely from his face. He dropped the leather briefcase he was holding; it hit the Persian rug with a dull thud.
"Boss," Vance choked out, his eyes bulging as he stared at Lorenzo sitting upright in the armchair. "You're... you're awake."
"Does it look like I'm sleeping, Julian?" Lorenzo asked, his voice dropping into a dangerously calm register.
Vance swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. He quickly recovered his composure, forcing a wide, trembling smile as he rushed forward. "This is a miracle! Truly a medical breakthrough! The board will be ecstatic. The restructuring plans we made for the shipping lanes—"
"The restructuring plans," Lorenzo interrupted, cutting him off with a flick of his wrist. He stood up from the armchair, moving with a sudden, menacing grace that showed how quickly his strength was returning. "Julian, while I was asleep, who authorized the transfer of the North River docks to the Moretti family?"
Vance’s face went from pale to ash-white in a fraction of a second. "The... the Moretti family? Boss, that was a defensive maneuver. To prevent a hostile takeover—"
"A defensive maneuver," Lorenzo repeated, closing the distance between them until he was towering over his attorney. "Or a down payment on your retirement fund?"
Vance stammered, looking frantically toward Mateo for help. But Mateo stood like a statue by the door, his hand resting on his holster, a cold smile playing on his lips.
Lorenzo turned his head slightly, glancing back at me still huddled against the baseboard.
"Mia," Lorenzo said quietly. "Get off the floor. Stand up."
I scrambled to my feet, brushing dust off my black apron.
"You wanted two thousand dollars for your brother's oxygen bill, didn't you?" Lorenzo asked, never breaking eye contact with the trembling attorney.
"Yes," I whispered.
"Mateo," Lorenzo commanded without turning around. "Open the wall safe behind the mahogany paneling. Give Miss Sutton fifty thousand dollars in cash from Julian's private retainer account. Then, have our medical helicopter fly her and her brother to the private clinic in Zurich. Give him the best doctors money can buy."
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Vance shrieked, "Boss, you can't touch my retainer! That's my personal—"
"Everything you own, Julian, exists because I allowed it to," Lorenzo growled, his hand flashing out with blinding speed to grab Vance by the silk tie, hauling him upward until their noses were inches apart. "And right now, you're going to sit in that chair and tell me every single name on the board that helped you sell my empire while I was asleep."
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