Chapter 4 - The Cicero Apartment
Avery stared at her phone screen long after the call ended, her thumb hovering over the red disconnect button as if the device might bite her.
A quarter of a million dollars.
To anyone in Dominic Moretti’s world, that was pocket change—the cost of a decent bottle of wine or a minor campaign contribution. To Avery, whose entire existence was governed by the agonizing subtraction of gas bills from grocery money, it was an astronomical, terrifying sum. It was freedom. It was years of dialysis sessions, uninterrupted medication refills, and a cushion against the crushing weight of poverty.
At the same time, it was a chain.
She knew men like Dominic Moretti didn't hand out fortunes out of the goodness of their hearts. In the syndicate underworld, money was never a gift; it was a shackle.
“Avery?”
Her mother’s voice drifted from the hallway. Linda shuffled into the kitchen, looking frail in her flannel robe, holding an empty mug. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the look of shock on Avery’s face.
“What is it?” Linda asked, her brow furrowing with sudden anxiety. “Did something happen at the hospital? Is the insurance claim denied?”
“No, Mom,” Avery breathed, setting the phone down on the table as if it were radioactive. “No… the insurance is fine. Actually, we have a... a deposit.”
“A deposit?” Linda walked over, peering down at the phone screen resting face-up on the laminate. Her eyes widened behind her reading glasses as she read the six-figure balance. She reached out, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself. “Avery Marie Carter... where did two hundred and fifty thousand dollars come from? Did you rob a bank? Did you steal a car?”
“I didn't steal anything!” Avery sighed, running a hand through her dark hair. She needed to tell her mother the truth, or at least a heavily edited version of it. “Remember the rich guy whose engagement party I delivered food to last night? The one whose fiancée was screaming at me?”
Linda nodded slowly. “The one you threw out of the house with your martial arts kick.”
“I didn't throw her out, I just... defended myself,” Avery corrected defensively, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Well, that man—Dominic Moretti—turns out he owns about half of Chicago’s freight network and runs security for half the state. And he apparently decided that his fiancée being toxic to delivery drivers is a massive corporate liability.”
“So he paid you off?” Linda asked, her voice dropping into a tone of maternal dread. “Avery, you can’t keep mob money. People like that—they don't just hand out fortunes. There’s always a catch. There’s always blood on the check.”
“I know,” Avery said quietly, walking over to wrap her arms around her mother. “I know, Mom. But look at what this means. Your treatments, the specialist in Evanston, the new prescription coverage—we don't have to worry about whether the card is going to decline at the pharmacy counter anymore. And Mr. Moretti wants me to come out to his estate in Lake Forest this morning to... discuss terms.”
“You’re going to go?” Linda asked, pulling back to look directly into her daughter’s eyes.
“I have to,” Avery said firmly. “If I walk away with his money without answering his summons, he’ll hunt us down before nightfall. Besides... I want to look him in the eye and find out why he thinks he can buy me.”
Two hours later, the battered sedan sputtered up the grand gravel driveway of the Lake Forest estate.
The iron gates swung open automatically as she approached, the security cameras tracking her every move with silent, mechanical precision. When she parked near the massive stone fountain, a man in a sharp gray suit was already waiting by the front entrance.
It wasn't a guard with a gun. It was Marcus Vance, holding a sleek black leather folder under his arm.
As Avery stepped out of her car, smoothing down her dark jeans and simple jacket, Marcus walked over. His expression was neutral, but there was a distinct glimmer of respect in his eyes that hadn't been there the night before.
“Miss Carter,” Marcus greeted politely. “Mr. Moretti is waiting for you in the private study.”
“Lead the way,” Avery said, keeping her chin up.
She walked through the double oak doors where she had been forced to kneel just twenty-four hours earlier. The marble foyer was immaculate, the broken glass and ruined cake completely gone, leaving no trace of the humiliation she had suffered.
Marcus led her down a wide, mahogany-paneled hallway past rows of oil paintings depicting stern-faced Italian ancestors and vintage maritime shipping vessels. He stopped in front of a heavy, iron-reinforced door, knocked twice, and pushed it open.
“Miss Carter, sir,” Marcus announced.
Dominic Moretti was standing by a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, pouring a cup of black coffee from a silver pot. He turned as she entered, setting the pot down and leaning casually against the edge of the mahogany desk.
He was wearing a charcoal-gray tailored suit without a tie, the top button of his crisp white shirt unbuttoned. He looked formidable, calm, and utterly in control of his environment.
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“Thank you, Marcus. That will be all,” Dominic said.
Marcus nodded, stepped out into the hallway, and pulled the heavy door shut behind him, leaving Avery alone with the most dangerous man in Chicago.
