Chapter 2 - The House on the LakeThe black suburban pulled up to the curb outside Mara’s dilapidated apartment complex in Pilsen at precisely 8:58 AM.
Mara had not slept.
She had spent the night sitting on her worn sofa, staring at the obsidian card resting on her laminate coffee table. The gold numbers seemed to catch the pale morning light through her thin blinds, reminding her that her quiet, invisible, forty-eight-dollars-in-the-bank life was officially over.
When the knock came at her door, it wasn't Mercer or a police officer.
It was a woman in her mid-forties wearing a perfectly tailored navy trouser suit, her dark hair cut into a sharp, uncompromising bob.
“Ms. Ellis?” the woman asked through the small opening of the door chain.
“Yes?”
“My name is Helen Vance. I am Mr. Moretti’s personal chief of staff. Mr. Moretti has requested your presence at the estate in Lake Forest.”
Mara unhooked the chain and opened the door. “I haven't agreed to take a job, Ms. Vance.”
Helen offered a small, professional smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Ms. Ellis, three hours ago, two men were arrested outside your local grocery store carrying unregistered firearms and a photograph of your face. Mr. Moretti’s team intercepted them before they reached your front steps.”
Mara felt the room tilt slightly. “What?”
“Lorenzo Vale was not working alone,” Helen explained calmly, as if discussing a change in the weather. “The syndicate he was leaking information to—the Russian group operating out of the port district—knows that a waitress identified the switched glass. You are no longer safe in this apartment. In fact, you are no longer safe in this city without protection.”
Helen gestured toward the hallway. “Your bags have already been packed by my team while you were asleep, or rather, while you were sitting on your couch.”
Mara’s hand went to her throat. “You entered my apartment?”
“We secured your perimeter,” Helen corrected smoothly. “Your clothes, documents, and personal effects are already in the vehicle. Please. Mr. Moretti does not like to be kept waiting.”
Forty-five minutes later, the SUV passed through a set of massive cast-iron gates set into a ten-foot brick wall on the quiet, tree-lined shores of Lake Michigan.
The Moretti estate was not a gaudy display of wealth. It was a sprawling, three-story stone manor built in the 1920s, surrounded by ancient oaks, manicured lawns, and the grey, churned waters of the lake visible through the mist.
When the car stopped in the gravel driveway, the front doors of the estate opened.
Dante Moretti walked down the stone steps.
He looked different in the daylight. He wore a heavy charcoal turtleneck sweater and dark trousers, his dark hair slightly damp from a morning shower. The intimidating crime boss from the restaurant was still there, but beneath it was a man who looked exhausted, carrying a weight that extended far beyond his vast financial empire.
He opened the SUV door himself before the driver could reach it.
“Mara,” Dante said, offering his hand to help her down.
She looked at his hand, then at his face, choosing to step down without taking his help. “Mr. Moretti. Your chief of staff informed me that my apartment was compromised.”
“It was,” Dante said, his voice grave. He gestured for her to follow him up the steps into the grand foyer, where marble floors reflected the soft light of a crystal chandelier. “I apologize for the abruptness, but I could not guarantee your safety in Pilsen. My men cleared your apartment and paid off your lease in full.”
“You paid off my lease?” Mara stopped in the center of the foyer. “Mr. Moretti, I appreciate that you protected me from whoever those men were, but I am not your employee, and I am certainly not your prisoner.”
Dante stopped and turned to face her.
He stood very close, close enough that she could smell the scent of cedar and faint espresso on him.
“You are neither,” Dante said quietly. “Ava is upstairs. She woke up an hour ago. The doctors have cleared her of any lasting neurological damage, but she refuses to eat or drink anything that isn't sealed in a bottle unless you are in the room.”
Mara froze. “Me?”
“She remembers your face, Mara,” Dante said, his gray eyes softening slightly, a rare break in his formidable armor. “She remembers that you were the only person who paid attention to what she wanted—the straw, the paper flowers. In her mind, you are the person who made the bad taste go away.”
Before Mara could respond, a small voice echoed from the top of the grand mahogany staircase.
“Daddy?”
Ava stood between the white spindles of the balcony, dressed in yellow pajamas, her small hands clutching a worn velvet teddy bear.
When her eyes landed on Mara standing in the foyer, her pale face instantly brightened.
“The straw lady!” Ava cried out, her small feet pattering against the runner rug as she hurried down the stairs, ignoring her father completely and running straight toward Mara.
Instinctively, Mara dropped to one knee.
Ava threw her arms around Mara’s neck, burying her face into her shoulder.
“I told Daddy you’d come,” Ava whispered into Mara’s coat. “He said you were busy, but I knew you’d come.”
Mara held the child, feeling the small, steady heat of her body, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She looked up over Ava’s shoulder and met Dante’s gaze.
He was watching them with an expression so raw, so filled with quiet, protective fierceness, that Mara felt her breath catch in her throat.
“I’m here, Ava,” Mara whispered, smoothing down the little girl’s dark hair. “I’m right here.”
From the shadows of the secondary hallway, Helen Vance stepped out holding a silver tray with two fresh cups of tea and a small glass of orange juice.
“Breakfast is served in the sunroom, Mr. Moretti,” Helen said.
As Ava pulled Mara by the hand toward the sunroom, Mara noticed something subtle.
Helen Vance set the glass of orange juice down on the marble sideboard before heading into the kitchen.
And as she walked away, Helen’s left hand reached into her pocket, pulling out a silver pen-like device and quietly wiping the tip against her sleeve.
Mara’s eyes narrowed.
It was the same motion Lorenzo Vale had made at the restaurant before adjusting his watch.
Mara stopped in her tracks, her grip tightening gently on Ava’s hand.
“Mr. Moretti,” Mara said, her voice dropping into the same sharp, observant register that had saved Ava the night before.
Dante paused at the sunroom doorway. “Yes?”
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Mara didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the silver tray sitting on the sideboard.
“Don't let Ava drink that juice,” Mara said softly. “The glass has been touched by someone who isn't wearing gloves.”
