Chapter 2 - THE ENVELOPE ON MY APARTMENT DOOR
I expected to lose my job before sunrise.
Instead, at 7:12 the next morning, my manager called to tell me I had been promoted.
I sat on the edge of my bed with my phone pressed to my ear and stared at the cracked plaster above our apartment radiator.
“Promoted?”
“Temporary banquet lead,” Mr. Foster said too quickly. “Higher hourly rate. Better shifts.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“Sophie.”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes good work gets noticed.”
I almost laughed.
Twelve hours earlier, he had watched Beatrice Vane raise her hand at me and had not moved.
Now I was apparently employee of the month.
“Did Lorenzo Moretti call you?”
Another silence.
That answered the question.
“I have to go,” Mr. Foster said.
“Mr. Foster—”
The line disconnected.
From the hallway, my brother coughed.
I stood immediately.
“Ethan?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sound like a dying accordion.”
My sixteen-year-old brother appeared in the doorway wearing sweatpants and an old Bulls sweatshirt.
His brown hair stuck up in six directions.
He hated when I watched him breathe.
Which meant I watched him constantly.
“Did you use your inhaler?”
“Yes.”
“Controller medication?”
He looked away.
“Ethan.”
“I’m almost out.”
My stomach tightened.
“How almost?”
“Two days.”
The refill cost $286 because our insurance coverage had changed again.
I had sixty-three dollars yesterday.
After my shift payment deposited, I had one hundred sixty-eight.
Rent was late.
Electricity was due.
Food existed because I had learned seventeen ways to turn eggs, rice, beans, and frozen vegetables into something technically edible.
“I’ll handle it.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I always do.”
He looked guilty.
I hated that.
A sixteen-year-old should feel guilty about lying over homework.
Not medication.
“Hey.”
I stepped closer.
“We’re okay.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That’s what poor people say right before electricity gets shut off.”
“You’re very uplifting before breakfast.”
“I try.”
A knock sounded.
We both froze.
My landlord usually knocked like he wanted the door to confess.
Three hard punches.
This knock was different.
Three polite taps.
Ethan looked at me.
“You expecting someone?”
“No.”
Another knock.
I checked the peephole.
A man in a dark overcoat stood outside.
Tall.
Forties.
Professional.
Not Lorenzo.
I almost felt relieved.
Then I remembered men like Lorenzo probably did not personally deliver flowers.
I opened the door two inches.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Clark?”
“Who’s asking?”
The man held up empty hands.
“Marco DeLuca. I work for Mr. Moretti.”
Of course.
Ethan whispered behind me:
“Nope.”
I almost agreed.
“What does he want?”
“To deliver something.”
Marco held out a cream envelope.
No bouquet.
No jewelry box.
No suspicious suitcase of mafia money.
Just paper.
I did not take it.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
His mouth twitched.
“Ms. Clark, one useful rule with Mr. Moretti is that if he gives you a sealed envelope, the people carrying it generally do not open it.”
That sounded both respectful and vaguely threatening.
I took the envelope.
Marco nodded.
“Have a good morning.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
He turned.
“Wait.”
He looked back.
“How did you know where I live?”
His face became carefully neutral.
“I was given an address.”
“By who?”
“Mr. Moretti.”
“How did he know?”
A pause.
“I suggest asking him.”
“That is not comforting.”
“No.”
Marco almost smiled.
“It rarely is.”
He left.
Ethan closed the door.
Then locked both deadbolts.
“What happened last night?”
“Nothing.”
“A mafia employee just found our apartment before eight.”
“Technically he delivered mail.”
“Sophie.”
I sighed.
I told him.
Not everything.
I left out the threat about Beatrice losing her hand.
That seemed inappropriate before cereal.
Ethan listened with his mouth open.
When I finished, he said:
“You yelled at a senator’s wife.”
“I did not yell.”
“She tried to hit you.”
“Yes.”
“And a mafia boss stopped her because the old woman was his mother.”
“Yes.”
“And now he knows where we live.”
“Yes.”
Ethan thought.
“Can I stay home from school forever?”
“No.”
“Worth trying.”
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten note.
Ms. Clark,
My mother would like to see you today.
I realize that sentence may sound less optional than intended.
It is optional.
—Lorenzo Moretti
Below it was an address in Lincoln Park.
And a phone number.
Ethan read over my shoulder.
“‘It is optional.’”
“Yes.”
“He definitely practices sounding terrifying while being polite.”
“That is a very specific skill.”
“Are you going?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I stared.
Ethan whispered:
“If that’s him, fake your death.”
I answered.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice.
Warm.
Older.
“Sophie?”
My body relaxed.
“Isabella?”
“I told Lorenzo you would recognize me.”
I smiled despite myself.
“How are you?”
“I’m angry.”
“What happened?”
“He hid my car keys.”
I heard a man’s voice in the background.
“Mama.”
“They are my keys.”
“You tried to drive to Milwaukee last month.”
“I wanted cheese.”
“You got lost in Evanston.”
“Same direction.”
I covered my mouth to stop laughing.
Then Isabella lowered her voice as though Lorenzo could not hear her.
“My son worries too much.”
“I can hear you,” Lorenzo said.
“I know.”
Isabella returned to me.
“Will you come have lunch?”
I hesitated.
“Please?”
It was impossible to hear that voice and imagine saying no.
“I can come for an hour.”
“Two.”
“One.”
“One and a half.”
I smiled.
“Fine.”
“Good. Lorenzo will send a car.”
“No.”
Silence.
Then Lorenzo’s voice came through.
“No?”
I stiffened.
Apparently Isabella had put me on speaker.
“I can take the train.”
“Not today.”
“Why?”
“Because your photograph was published three times this morning.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
Ethan grabbed his phone.
“Where?”
Lorenzo continued.
“Two political blogs. One society site.”
“Why?”
“Because Beatrice Vane’s humiliation became gossip before midnight.”
I closed my eyes.
“And now?”
“Now people know the server who challenged her.”
Ethan turned his phone toward me.
There I was.
Cheap uniform.
Coffee stain.
Standing beside Isabella.
Headline:
UNKNOWN SERVER CONFRONTS SENATOR VANE’S WIFE BEFORE MORETTI SHOWDOWN.
Another:
WHO IS SOPHIE CLARK?
I felt sick.
“I don’t want a car.”
“Sophie.”
The way Lorenzo said my name stopped me.
Not commanding.
Serious.
“Why?”
“Because someone already requested your home address from the catering company.”
My skin went cold.
“What?”
“Your manager refused.”
“He did?”
“After my office advised him that employee privacy was important.”
Of course.
Mr. Foster had not suddenly discovered ethics.
Lorenzo had reminded him.
“Who requested it?”
“Someone claiming to work for Senator Vane’s campaign.”
Ethan went still.
“What do they want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know it’s dangerous?”
“I don’t.”
He paused.
“But I do not gamble with things I can protect easily.”
I hated how reasonable that sounded.
“What kind of car?”
Lorenzo sounded confused.
“What?”
“If you send six black SUVs, my neighbors will assume I’m being arrested.”
For the first time, I heard him laugh.
Low.
Brief.
Unexpected.
“One car.”
“Normal?”
“Define normal.”
“Not bulletproof.”
Silence.
“Lorenzo.”
“It will look normal.”
“That is not the same answer.”
Isabella interrupted.
“Wear something comfortable. I’m making lasagna.”
The call ended.
Ethan stared at me.
“You’re having lunch with the mafia.”
“With an elderly woman.”
“In a mafia house.”
“Technically.”
“Can you bring me lasagna?”
I pointed at him.
“School.”
He grabbed his backpack.
Then stopped.
“Sophie.”
“What?”
His joking expression disappeared.
“Be careful.”
I softened.
“I always am.”
“No.”
He looked at me seriously.
“You’re careful when it’s about me.”
That landed.
“Be careful when it’s about you too.”
Then he left.
At 12:20, a dark blue sedan arrived.
Normal enough.
Marco drove.
No conversation beyond weather.
We stopped in front of a beautiful brick house behind an iron gate.
Not a mansion.
Large.
Old.
Private.
The door opened before I reached it.
Isabella stood there wearing a green cardigan.
She smiled.
“Sophie!”
She hugged me.
For one second, I saw my grandmother.
Same softness.
Same uncertainty hidden behind dignity.
My throat tightened.
“You look better.”
“I escaped the ballroom.”
“Good plan.”
She pulled me inside.
Lorenzo stood at the far end of the foyer.
Black trousers.
Dark sweater.
No suit jacket.
He looked younger without one.
Still dangerous.
Unfortunately handsome.
I immediately decided that observation was irrelevant.
“Ms. Clark.”
“Sophie.”
His eyes changed slightly.
“Sophie.”
“Better.”
Isabella took my hand.
“Come. I made too much food.”
“Your mother cooked?” I asked Lorenzo.
“I attempted to stop her.”
“She threatened me with a wooden spoon.”
“That seems fair.”
Lunch felt strangely normal.
Lasagna.
Salad.
Bread.
Isabella told stories.
Lorenzo corrected half of them.
She corrected his corrections.
Then memory slipped.
Only once.
Isabella looked at me and suddenly asked:
“Where is your grandmother?”
My chest tightened.
“She died.”
Her face crumpled.
“Oh.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
Then she forgot that she had asked.
Ten minutes later, she was laughing again.
After lunch, Isabella went upstairs to rest.
Lorenzo walked me toward the front room.
“Thank you.”
“You already thanked me.”
“I know.”
“You’re bad at following your own rule.”
“What rule?”
“If something is unnecessary, don’t do it.”
“I never said that.”
“It sounds like something you would say.”
A faint smile.
Then his expression changed.
“I need to show you something.”
That sentence never leads anywhere good.
He handed me a printed email.
From someone in Senator Vane’s campaign.
To my catering company.
SUBJECT: EMPLOYEE INCIDENT REVIEW — SOPHIE CLARK.
They requested my address.
Phone number.
Employment history.
Emergency contact.
Family members.
I stared.
“Why would a campaign need my brother’s name?”
“They shouldn’t.”
Fear moved through me.
“Do they know Ethan?”
“Not from the company.”
“What does that mean?”
Lorenzo handed me another page.
A screenshot from a private investigator database.
SOPHIE CLARK.
Associated person:
ETHAN CLARK, 16.
Medical insurance lien.
Asthma-related pharmacy claim.
I stopped breathing.
“Who searched this?”
“A firm used by Charles Vane.”
My voice went quiet.
“Why?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
I looked at Lorenzo.
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“No?”
“You do not intend anything involving me without telling me.”
He studied me.
Then nodded.
“Fair.”
“I mean it.”
“I heard you.”
“You don’t own this problem because you frightened Beatrice.”
His eyes hardened.
“I didn’t frighten her for sport.”
“I know.”
“She tried to strike you.”
“And?”
“And I dislike bullies.”
I almost laughed.
“The man half of Chicago thinks runs organized crime dislikes bullies?”
His expression became unreadable.
“Chicago believes many things.”
“Are they wrong?”
He held my gaze.
“I own legal businesses.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“No.”
“Convenient.”
“Yes.”
Neither of us smiled.
Then he said:
“Whatever you think of me, Senator Vane’s people searched your minor brother’s medical information.”
That brought me back.
“What do I do?”
“We figure out why.”
“We?”
“You asked me not to act without you.”
I stared.
“That is annoyingly logical.”
“I practice.”
Then Marco entered.
“Lorenzo.”
Something in his tone changed the room.
“What?”
“A package was delivered to the Clark apartment.”
My stomach dropped.
“What package?”
Marco looked at me.
“An inhaler.”
Everything inside me stopped.
Lorenzo’s face became ice.
Marco continued.
“Still sealed. No note except one line.”
“What line?” I whispered.
He hesitated.
Then:
“Tell your sister to remember her place.”
My knees nearly gave out.
For the first time since defending Isabella, I understood something clearly.
Beatrice Vane’s humiliation had not ended in the ballroom.
May you like
It had followed me home.
And someone had just used my brother’s asthma to prove they knew exactly where to hurt me.
