Chapter 4 - The Midnight Summons
Clara thought it was over.
She figured she’d be fired by morning, blacklisted from every restaurant in the tristate area, and left to figure out how to pay her mother’s medical bills without a paycheck.
It was 2:30 AM when she finally unlocked the door of her cramped, drafty studio apartment in Flatbush. The radiator clanked a rhythmic, dying song against the wall, and the single window rattled against the autumn wind. She kicked off her worn-out sneakers, dropped her apron on the floor, and collapsed onto the sagging mattress, staring up at the peeling paint on the ceiling.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She groaned, reaching over to silence it, assuming it was a debt collector or a notification from the landlord. But the screen flashed with an unknown, restricted caller ID.
She swiped to ignore it. It buzzed again immediately.
Sighing, Clara pressed accept. “Hello?”
“You dropped this,” a deep, gravelly voice said on the other end of the line.
Clara sat up straight, her heart instantly hammering against her ribs. She recognized that voice anywhere. Rico Moretti.
“I didn't drop anything,” Clara said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts. “How did you get this number?”
“In my line of work, finding a phone number takes ten seconds,” Rico replied smoothly. “And you did drop something. You left a piece of your apron in my son’s hand. He woke up twenty minutes ago, realized you were gone, and started tearing the penthouse apart looking for his ‘milk lady.’”
Clara swallowed hard. “Mr. Moretti, I quit. I’m not coming back to Il Destino, and I don't want any trouble—”
“Who said anything about Il Destino?” Rico interrupted, his tone shifting into something cold, heavy, and completely undeniable. “Look out your window, Miss Vance.”
Clara froze.
Slowly, her bare feet touching the cold linoleum floor, she crept toward the frosted window and pulled back the thin, faded curtain.
Down on the street below, parked directly beneath the flickering streetlamp, was a massive, matte-black armored Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows. Two men in sharp black suits stood by the rear doors, scanning the quiet Brooklyn street with calculated precision.
“You have two minutes to pack a bag,” Rico said over the phone. “My men are coming up. Don't make them break the door down.”
“Wait! You can’t just—!”
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Click.
The line went dead.
