Chapter 9 – [THE SHADOW FROM NEW YORK]
Six months later.
The Chicago snow fell heavily outside the windows of the Valenti penthouse.
I was no longer wearing a maid’s uniform. I wore a tailored crimson dress, leaning against the balcony glass, watching the city lights.
Nico walked up behind me, wrapping his strong arms around my waist.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured, kissing my neck.
“I’m just thinking about how much has changed,” I said, leaning into his warmth.
Gabriel was thriving. He had taken over the legitimate side of the family’s real estate business and was currently dating a wonderful physical therapist named Claire.
But peace in the mafia world is a fragile illusion.
A sharp knock at the penthouse door broke the silence.
Nico’s head of security, a towering man named Luca, stepped inside, his face grim.
“Boss. We have a problem.”
Nico tightened his grip on me slightly. “What is it?”
“The New York syndicate. They’ve sent an emissary. He’s downstairs in the lobby, demanding a meeting.”
Nico’s jaw set. “Did he give a name?”
“Yes, sir. Victor Moretti.”
I felt Nico stiffen.
“Moretti,” Nico breathed. “He’s the boss of the East Coast.”
Nico turned to me. “Harper, go to the safe room.”
“No,” I said firmly, stepping away from the glass. “I’m your partner, Nico. We face this together.”
Nico looked at me, pride swelling in his eyes.
“Alright. Send him up.”
Three minutes later, the elevator doors chimed.
Victor Moretti stepped out. He was an older man, silver hair slicked back, wearing a bespoke suit that screamed old money and old blood.
He didn’t bring armed guards. He didn’t need to. His reputation was his weapon.
“Nico Valenti,” Victor said, his voice like gravel. “It seems you’ve caused quite a disruption in our operations by arresting Richard Whitmore.”
“Whitmore was a traitor,” Nico said smoothly.
“He was my earner,” Victor corrected, stepping closer. He looked at me, his cold eyes calculating. “And I hear a little housemaid is the one who brought him down.”
He reached into his pocket.
“I brought you a gift, Miss Collins.”
He tossed a small object onto the glass coffee table.
It was a plane ticket.
One way. To Italy.
“Leave Chicago by midnight,” Victor said. “Or the next time I visit, I won’t come alone.”
Share
