Chapter 4

The man finally looked at him fully. "She is burned. She is shaking. She is humiliated." His voice dropped. "In my city. During my quiet hour."

The words hung there. My city. Carl's face drained of color. He stared at the man's scar, his suit, the controlled way he stood, and whatever gutter knowledge he carried in his bones finally connected.

"Moretti," he breathed.

The name hit me like cold water. Christian Moretti. I'd read that name on my phone during subway rides, half rumor, half fact. The Moretti family owned freight companies, construction firms, nightclubs, warehouses, and half the silences whispered between city employees who knew exactly when to look away. Nobody had ever proven anything. Nobody had to. The Morettis weren't a street gang. They were older than that. Quieter. Built into the walls of Chicago itself.

And the man who had sat in my corner booth twice a week for a month, ordering pie he never ate, was Christian Moretti.

Carl raised both hands. "Mr. Moretti, listen, I didn't know. I swear I didn't know she was yours."

Christian's expression did not change. "She is not mine," he said. "She is a woman doing her job."

Carl swallowed hard. "I'll pay for the uniform. I'll tip her. I'll clean it up."

"I know you will," Christian said, and crossed the space between them.

Carl backed into the counter, his bravado collapsing completely. Christian placed one hand on the back of Carl's neck. It almost looked gentle, the way a father might steady a stumbling son, except nothing about it was gentle at all.

"Apologize," Christian said.

Carl's knees buckled. "I'm sorry," he gasped, looking at me with real terror now. "I'm sorry. Please."

Christian turned his head toward me, unhurried, and asked, "Do you accept his apology?"

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I looked at Carl's shaking hands, at the ruined uniform sticking cold to my ribs, at three years of smiling through exactly this kind of moment because the register always needed the tip more than my pride needed the truth. I found I did not have to pretend anymore.

"No," I said. "I don't."