Chapter 1 - The Summons at MidnightThe white fluorescent lights of the bar’s back office flickered, humming with a low, nervous buzz that matched the frantic pounding in my chest.
"What did they say, Sam?" I whispered, my fingers digging into the edge of the laminate desk. "Word for word. Tell me."
Sam, the head bartender who had worked at O’Malley’s for twelve years, rubbed a hand over his tired face. His palms were sweating, and he refused to meet my eyes.
"They said Mr. Moretti doesn't like unfinished business, Mara," Sam said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the ice machine outside the door. "They said a black sedan is sitting in the alley behind the kitchen. You have ten minutes to get inside, or they’ll come through the front doors to collect you."
A sharp, icy wave of dread washed over me.
Outside the office, the bar was dead quiet. The coworkers who twenty minutes ago were laughing, tossing five-hundred-dollar dares onto sticky wooden tables, had slipped out the side exit the second the name Adrian Moretti cleared Sam's lips. The five hundred dollars still sat on the table where they had abandoned it.
I picked up my canvas bag, my hands trembling so violently I could barely zip it shut. Inside was my phone, my lip balm, and forty-three dollars in crumpled bills.
"If I don't go..." I choked out.
"Mara," Sam said gently, his eyes filled with a terrifying, helpless pity. "Adrian Moretti owns the docks, the precinct, and three of the five city council members. He doesn't ask twice. If you run, he’ll find you. And he’ll find your brother."
My seventeen-year-old brother, Leo.
The thought of Leo—sitting at home in his wheelchair, waiting for me to bring home dinner—shattered whatever fragile hesitation I had left. I couldn't bring danger to our doorstep. I couldn't let anyone touch my brother.
"Tell the manager I'm taking the rest of the night off," I said, forcing my voice to stay level.
I walked out of the office, grabbed the five hundred dollars off the table—because if I was walking into the lion’s den, I was at least going to make sure my brother's physical therapy bill got paid—and walked through the double swing doors into the dark, rain-slicked alley behind the kitchen.
A massive, armored black Maybach sat idling in the drizzle, its tinted windows reflecting the harsh yellow streetlight.
The rear door opened automatically before I even reached the curb.
Standing beside the open door was one of the broad-shouldered men from earlier, his dark coat unbuttoned, exposing the leather shoulder holster beneath his arm.
"Miss Bellamy," he said, his tone surprisingly polite, devoid of any thuggery. "Please step inside. Mr. Moretti is waiting."
I took a deep breath, smoothing down the front of my black server apron over my hips, holding my chin high despite the terror clawing at my throat.
May you like
I stepped into the leather-scented warmth of the Maybach.
The heavy door clicked shut behind me, sealing out the sound of the rain, sealing out my old life, and locking me into the dark with the most feared man in Chicago.
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