Chapter 1 - The Wolf and the Waitress
The fever broke just as the sun dragged its pale, bruised light over the Chicago skyline, turning the clouds the color of wet cement. Tessa Hayes sat cross-legged on the threadbare rug beside her mattress, her eyes burning from lack of sleep and her shoulders aching from hours of changing cold compresses on the boy’s forehead.
He was sleeping quietly now, his chest rising and falling in a steady, shallow rhythm. The purple bruise under his left eye looked even more horrific in the morning light, stark against skin that was naturally olive-toned and smooth.
Tessa looked down at her hands. They were still slightly stained with the grease from Ali’s grill and the mud from the alley. Just a few hours ago, she had been a nameless, exhausted waitress surviving paycheck to paycheck in a city that swallowed people like her whole. Now, she was hiding what appeared to be the missing heir to the most dangerous criminal syndicate in Illinois.
The heavy gold signet ring lay on her bedside table, catching the weak morning light filtering through the grime-streaked window. The wolf wrapped in thorn vines seemed to stare back at her, a mute reminder of the absolute peril she had invited into her life.
She needed to know who he was.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, Tessa reached for his damp jacket, which she had draped over the back of her only chair. She searched the pockets, finding nothing except a crumpled candy wrapper and a small, smooth skipping stone. Then, she checked the lining. Inside an inner zipper pocket, she found a boarding pass that had been folded into a tiny square.
The ink was slightly smudged from the rain, but the name was still legible.
Julian Moretti.
Tessa’s breath caught in her throat.
Julian Moretti. Seven years old. The only son of Silas Moretti—the man legendary for running Chicago’s docklands, construction unions, and political machinery with an iron fist. Three days ago, every news channel in the city had broadcasted an urgent amber alert: “Julian Moretti missing following a tragic multi-vehicle crash on the Kennedy Expressway.”
The news had reported that the boy’s mother had died in the wreck, and the child had been presumed incinerated inside the burning wreckage of their luxury SUV.
An incinerated child.
Except Julian was lying right here on Tessa’s mattress, battered, drugged with a high fever, and terrified of his own flesh and blood.
The crash hadn't been an accident. It had been an execution attempt. And the person who had pulled the boy from the wreck—or tried to finish the job in the alley behind Ali’s Diner—had failed.
"Uncle Arthur," Tessa whispered to herself, recalling the boy’s fever-induced delirium.
Arthur Moretti. Silas’s younger brother. The COO of Moretti Holdings, known in financial circles as a ruthless corporate shark, and whispered about in the underworld as Silas’s cold-blooded enforcer. If Arthur was behind the plot to kill his own nephew, he had done it to usurp the succession line, cutting Silas out and seizing absolute control of the Moretti empire before the patriarch could realize what was happening.
And right now, Silas Moretti believed his son was dead.
Tessa stood up, pacing the cramped confines of her studio apartment. Her first instinct was to run—to pack a single duffel bag, grab whatever cash she had hidden in the flour canister, and catch a Greyhound bus to anywhere else in the country. But as she looked back at Julian, who whimpered softly in his sleep and curled into a tight ball, her feet refused to move.
If she left him here, someone would find him. Arthur’s cleaners weren't incompetent; they had simply lost the boy in the blinding rainstorm. They would retrace their steps. They would check the alley cameras, trace the tire tracks, and find Ali’s Diner.
And if she called the police?
A humorless, bitter laugh escaped her lips. The Chicago Police Department’s 14th District was practically on the Moretti payroll. Calling the cops was equivalent to mailing an invitation directly to Arthur’s hit squad.
There was only one way out of this alive. She had to keep Julian hidden long enough to figure out how to get him directly to the only man in Chicago powerful enough to protect him against his own blood: Silas Moretti himself.
Suddenly, a loud, violent knock shook the wooden frame of her apartment door.
Tessa froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Open up! Health inspector!" a gruff, booming voice shouted from the hallway. "We received an anonymous tip regarding code violations in this unit!"
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Tessa looked at the door, then down at the sleeping boy.
The game had begun.
