Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the Morettis
The fifth-floor recovery suite at St. Jude’s was larger than Emily’s entire apartment.
When Ruth Carter was wheeled into the bright, private room with its plush armchair, private bathroom, and television mounted on the wall, she looked around in bewildered awe.
“Emmy,” Ruth whispered, clutching the floral quilt as the orderly adjusted her pillows. “How... how did we afford this? Did insurance finally approve the tier-three coverage?”
Emily stood by the window, staring out at the grey Chicago morning. She hadn't slept. She had spent the entire night pacing the linoleum floor of her kitchen, staring at the Moretti Holdings receipt, feeling the phantom weight of a billionaire’s shadow wrapping around her throat.
“Yes, Mom,” Emily lied again, her voice tasting like ash. “The insurance paperwork finally went through. Everything is covered.”
“Thank God,” Ruth breathed, closing her eyes in exhausted relief. “I was so scared... so scared I’d leave you with nothing.”
“You’re not leaving me anywhere,” Emily said, leaning down to kiss her mother’s forehead. “Rest. I have to go to work.”
The walk to the diner was bitter. The wind cut through her thin coat, but Emily barely felt it. Her mind was racing. She knew corporate wire transfers didn't happen by accident. Vincent Moretti knew who she was. He knew where her mother was. By paying the hospital bill, he had looped a silk cord around her neck, and he could pull it whenever he pleased.
When she pushed open the door of the diner at 6:50 AM, Reuben was already at the flat-top, and Dana was filling the sugar caddies.
Dana looked up, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and morbid fascination.
“Emily,” Dana breathed, dropping a handful of sugar packets onto the counter. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“What?” Emily asked, tying her apron around her waist with stiff, mechanical fingers.
“Channel 7 news had a segment at five o'clock this morning. They were talking about the downtown shipping strikes... and then they mentioned Moretti Holdings acquiring three major logistics firms in Cicero.” Dana lowered her voice to a frantic whisper. “They showed a picture of Vincent Moretti stepping out of his building. And the anchor said... he said Moretti’s private charitable foundation just dropped a multi-million-dollar health grant into St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital.”
Emily froze, the apron string slipping from her fingers.
“St. Jude’s,” Dana repeated, watching Emily’s face carefully. “Isn't that where your mom is?”
Before Emily could answer, the bell above the diner door chimed.
It wasn't a regular customer.
Three men walked in. Two of them were built like brick walls, wearing identical charcoal overcoats and sunglasses despite the gloomy weather. The third man was younger, sharp-featured, with a broken nose and an expensive Italian suit that looked entirely out of place among the vinyl booths and napkin dispensers.
Sal Moretti.
The entire diner went dead silent. Reuben turned off the grill. Dana let out a small, terrified squeak and backed away toward the kitchen door.
Sal didn't look at the menu. He didn't look at the old men in the corner booth. His dark, calculating eyes locked immediately onto Emily Carter behind the counter.
He walked straight toward her, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the checkered floor.
“Emily Carter?” Sal asked, his voice smooth, carrying a harsh, grating edge beneath the polished exterior.
Emily didn't flinch. She kept her hands flat on the counter, channeling every ounce of the desperate, burned-out fury that had kept her going for the last two years.
“Depends who’s asking,” Emily said.
Sal smirked, leaning against the counter. “My name is Salvatore Moretti. I’m Vincent’s nephew. My uncle asked me to deliver a message to you.”
“Tell him I’m on the clock, and I don't take messages from thugs in expensive suits.”
A muscle twitched in Sal’s jaw. The two guards behind him tensed, their hands shifting slightly toward their waistbands.
“You’ve got a lot of mouth for a girl who’s one missed paycheck away from eviction,” Sal said, his voice dropping into a dangerous purr. “My uncle isn't angry about yesterday. In fact, he’s fascinated. And when Vincent Moretti gets fascinated by something... he likes to inspect it up close.”
May you like
Sal reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a thick, heavy card embossed with gold lettering, and laid it on the counter.
“Car’s waiting outside at seven-thirty,” Sal said. “Be in it. Or your mother’s new private room at St. Jude’s is going to feel an awful lot drafty when the heat gets turned off.”
