Chapter 2 - The Knock on the Door
The tiny, second-floor studio apartment on North Clark Street always smelled faintly of burnt toast and old radiator pipes.
Claire woke up at 7:00 a.m. Saturday morning with a splitting headache, the lingering taste of cheap tequila on her tongue, and a frantic, dizzying conviction that last night had all been an alcohol-induced fever dream.
She sat up on her sagging futon, rubbing her temples.
It was a dare, she told herself, staring at the ceiling tiles with water stains shaped like Florida. Some guy in a nice suit who looked like a mob boss in a movie. Tyler is an idiot, I’m an idiot, and by noon I’ll be back at the diner flipping omelets.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold linoleum.
Then she saw it.
Sitting right on the small wooden kitchen table by the door was a sleek, heavy, matte-black metal card with a single silver initial embossed in the center.
It wasn't a dream.
Claire walked over slowly, as if approaching a sleeping animal, and picked up the card. The metal was surprisingly heavy, cold to the touch. On the back, written in sharp, precise ink, was a ten-digit private phone number.
Her phone buzzed loudly on the counter, making her jump.
She grabbed it. A text notification flashed across the screen from an unknown number.
Get dressed. A car is waiting downstairs in five minutes.
Claire stared at the screen, her heart hammering against her ribs. A car? Waiting downstairs? No way.
She rushed to her tiny window, pulled back the faded yellow curtain, and looked down onto North Clark Street.
Parked right outside the crumbling brick entrance of her apartment building—blocking a CTA bus and causing a minor chorus of angry honking—was a massive, pitch-black Mercedes Maybach with tinted windows so dark they looked like polished obsidian. Standing beside the driver’s side door, wearing a sharp charcoal suit despite the bitter morning chill, was the towering enforcer with the scar over his eyebrow.
He wasn't looking at traffic. He was staring directly up at her second-floor window.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded Claire’s veins. She had two choices: she could lock her door, crawl under the futon, and pretend she had moved to Canada; or she could face whatever terrifying, surreal reality Adrian Moretti had just dropped onto her doorstep.
Ten minutes later, wearing her favorite oversized green sweater, dark jeans, and scuffed boots, Claire pushed open the heavy front door of her building and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The scar-faced enforcer pushed off the side of the Maybach, walking over with heavy, measured steps. He didn't smile. He didn't threaten her. He simply opened the rear passenger door with crisp, professional deference.
“Miss Bennett,” he said, his voice a low gravel growl. “Mr. Moretti is expecting you.”
“I have a shift at the diner at ten o’clock,” Claire blurted out, her voice cracking slightly.
“Your shift has been covered, Miss Bennett,” the man replied smoothly. “Please get in.”
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Claire took a deep breath, gripped the strap of her canvas purse like a shield, and slid across the leather seats of the Maybach.
The interior smelled of rich leather, expensive cologne, and absolute power. The door closed with a heavy, vacuum-sealed thud that cut off the noise of the Chicago morning traffic completely.
