Chapter 2 - The Contract of Shadows
Vittorio Moretti leaned across my small, scratched kitchen table, his sharp grey eyes piercing through the dim light of my studio apartment. He didn't smell like cheap alcohol or desperation; he smelled of expensive leather, Cuban tobacco, and absolute power.
"You think I am offering you a job because my son needs a nanny, Miss Vance?" Vittorio’s voice was a low, raspy hum, like grinding stones. "No. I am offering you a job because Dawson listened to you. In twenty-seven years, no human being has ever snatched a weapon from my son's hand and lived to tell the story. You didn't just survive him—you domesticated him for ten minutes."
I stood near my sink, my hands wrapped around a lukewarm mug of instant coffee. "He was drunk, Mr. Moretti. And I was tired."
"Dawson is never too drunk to kill," Vittorio corrected coldly. "He is an animal bred for war. But an animal without a leash destroys its own territory. My syndicate is expanding into legitimate hotel developments across the Midwest. The board members of the syndicate's front companies will not tolerate an heir who smashes glass tables at midnight. I need him presentable. I need him disciplined. And if he steps out of line... I need someone he hesitates to crush."
He tapped a manicured finger against the thick black leather binder resting beside the envelope of cash.
"The trap, Miss Vance," Vittorio continued, his lips curving into a ruthless, hollow smile, "is that if you take this job, my enemies will assume you are his weakness. They will watch you. They will target you. But if you decline... your father’s loan sharks from the South Side will come through that door by Friday. They will not ask you to manage a drunk heir. They will break your fingers one by one."
My chest tightened. The air in my cramped apartment felt suddenly thin. My father had disappeared six months ago, leaving me with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in unpayable gambling debts to men who didn't take payment plans.
"Ten thousand a week," I whispered, my eyes darting to the thick envelope on the table.
"Ten thousand," Vittorio confirmed. "Plus a penthouse on Michigan Avenue, a private security detail, and total immunity within Moretti territory. All you have to do is keep my son alive, sober, and in a suit until his twenty-eighth birthday next month when the board votes on his succession."
I looked at the peeling wallpaper of my apartment. I looked at my unpaid utility bills stacked on the counter. Then I thought about Dawson Moretti—the dark, lethal look in his eyes when he sat down and drank tap water just because I told him to.
May you like
I reached out, took the pen from the old man's hand, and signed my name on the bottom line.
"Wise choice, Clara," Vittorio said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. "A car will pick you up at 6:00 AM tomorrow. Welcome to the Moretti family."
