Chapter 2 - The Command to RideThe executive floor of Moretti Tower had never felt so suffocating. Clara stood in the doorway, her breath caught in her throat as Marcus stepped toward her, his dark eyes entirely devoid of the professional courtesy he usually maintained.
“Where were you?” Marcus repeated, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
“I told the lobby desk, Marcus,” Clara said, forcing her voice to remain steady despite the sudden, erratic hammering of her pulse. “My daughter, Lili, woke up with a severe fever. I had to arrange for a neighbor to watch her. I am exactly twelve minutes late. If Mr. Moretti wishes to dock my pay, he has every right, but I will not apologize for taking care of my child.”
Marcus didn't answer immediately. He looked down at the tablet in his hand, then back up at Clara’s face. There was a flicker of something resembling pity in his eyes, but it vanished so quickly Clara wondered if she had imagined it.
“It’s not about the time, Clara,” Marcus said quietly. “Mr. Moretti is inside. And he isn't alone.”
Before Clara could ask what that meant, the heavy mahogany door to Dante Moretti’s private office swung open.
Valeria Graves stood in the threshold. She was a vision of cold, expensive perfection—a tailored cream dress that matched the minimalist aesthetic of the tower, her diamond engagement ring catching the harsh fluorescent lighting, her eyes wide with a carefully orchestrated display of grief.
“Oh, Clara,” Valeria murmured, her voice trembling with theatrical disappointment. “How could you do it? After everything Dante did for you? After he gave you a job when no one else in this city would touch your resume?”
Clara stepped back, her brows furrowing. “Miss Graves, I don't know what you’re talking about. Do what?”
“Come inside, Miss Hayes,” a voice commanded from the shadows of the office.
It was Dante.
The voice was low, resonant, and carried the weight of a man who could rewrite the city’s ledger with a single stroke of his pen. It was the voice that had kept Clara awake at night during her first year at Moretti Enterprises—the tone of absolute authority that brooked no argument, no hesitation, and no defense.
Clara walked into the office, her black pencil skirt rustling against the carpet. The room was cast in deep amber shadows, the setting sun burning red against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, throwing Dante’s tall, broad-shouldered silhouette into sharp relief. He was standing behind his desk, his jacket off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his hands resting flat against the dark marble surface.
On the center of the desk lay a thick, dusty manila folder bearing the faded blue seal of St. Agnes Medical Center.
Isabella Moretti’s medical file.
Clara’s heart stopped. She knew that file. She had seen it three days ago, hidden beneath a false bottom in the lower drawer of the family archive room—a room she had been granted access to only to catalog old real estate deeds from the 1990s. She had touched it, yes. She had opened it because the name Isabella Moretti was written in the distinctive, shaky handwriting of Dr. Harrison—the same senior physician who had ruined Clara’s nursing career to cover up his own fatal error seven years ago.
“Mr. Moretti,” Clara said, her voice dropping into the precise, clinical tone she used when a patient was crashing. “I can explain why I looked at that file. But I did not steal it. I left it exactly where I found it.”
“The security footage says otherwise, Clara,” Valeria said, stepping to Dante’s side and resting her manicured hand on his forearm. “The cameras show you entering the archive at 8:00 p.m. on Thursday. They show you pulling the file. And they show you leaving the building with a heavy canvas bag. Dante’s mother’s records were found missing this morning during the annual audit. Do you know what those papers mean to this family? Do you know what kind of leverage they represent to our enemies?”
Clara looked from Valeria to Dante. The mafia boss had not moved. His pale gray eyes were locked onto her face, analyzing the micro-expressions of her jaw, the slight tremor in her hands, the sweat bead tracing the curve of her collarbone.
“Did you take it, Clara?” Dante asked. The question wasn't a shout. It was a whisper, but it filled the room like the rumble of distant thunder.
“No, sir,” Clara said, looking him dead in the eye. “I touched it because I recognized the physician’s signature. Dr. Harrison was the man who caused my license suspension at St. Agnes. Seven years ago, the exact same month your mother passed away, he committed a fatal medication error that the hospital administration covered up by blaming me. When I saw his name on your mother’s file, I wanted to see if… if the dates aligned. But I put it back. I swear to you on my daughter’s life, I put it back.”
“She’s lying, Dante,” Valeria whispered, her fingers tightening on his arm. “She’s trying to use her past to create a distraction. She’s an operative, Dante. My father warned us that the syndicate families on the West Side were looking for an opening. She’s been selling information.”
Dante slowly lifted his arm, dislodging Valeria’s hand with a cold, mechanical precision that made the socialite stumble back a half-step. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. His fingers moved across the screen, dialing the private number he had assigned to Clara’s emergency contact sheet.
He didn't look at Clara. He looked out the window at the bleeding New York skyline.
The line rang once. Twice. Three times.
Clara’s phone remained silent in her purse. She had left her personal device at home with Mrs. Alvarez so Lili could watch cartoons if her fever spiked.
Then, the call connected.
May you like
A small, wet, hiccuping gasp echoed through the speaker of Dante’s phone. A voice, no older than six, shattered the silence of the executive suite.
“Mommy can’t get up.”
