Across town, in the elite residential enclave of Gold Coast, the Sterling mansion was in total pandemonium.
Victoria sat on a velvet sofa, still weeping hysterically, while her father, Richard Sterling, paced back and forth across the Persian rug like a caged beast.
Every light in the palatial estate was on.
On his mahogany desk, three cell phones were buzzing simultaneously with urgent notifications from supply lines, banking partners, and board members.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”
Richard roared, slamming his heavy fist onto the desk so hard a crystal glass shattered.
“The Moretti Group just suspended our maritime shipping license!
By tomorrow morning, our cargo in the Port of Chicago will be impounded!”
“How was I supposed to know?!”
Victoria shrieked back, clutching a silk pillow.
“She was sitting there like a beggar!
In an old woolen cardigan!
A billionaire’s mother doesn’t dress like a thrift-store customer!”
“Vincent Moretti’s mother was an immigrant factory worker before his late father built their first steel mill!”
Richard bellowed, his face turning an alarming shade of purple.
“Everyone in this city knows Isabella Moretti hates opulence!
She spends half her year volunteering at soup kitchens!
And you—my arrogant, brainless daughter—threatened to strike her in front of three hundred business leaders!”
Victoria bit her trembling lip, her terror suddenly morphing into bitter, poisonous venom.
“It wasn’t my fault…
It was that filthy little waitress!
If that girl hadn’t grabbed me and made a scene, nobody would have even noticed!
She humiliated me on purpose!”
“The waitress?”
Richard stopped pacing, glaring at her with bloodshot eyes.
“Who was she?”
“Just some nobody from catering!
Her name was Emma something!”
Victoria hissed, her fingers digging viciously into the sofa fabric.
“She acted like she was some righteous hero.
If she hadn’t touched me, I would have walked away!
She set me up, Dad!
She did it to climb the social ladder!”
Richard rubbed his temples, breathing heavily as another phone call lit up the screen—the Chief Executive of Union Bank, likely calling to freeze their credit line.
“Find out who this girl is,” Richard muttered coldly.
“If Moretti is protecting her, she might be our only angle.
If she withdraws her statement or admits she provoked you, we might have grounds to negotiate with Vincent.”
Chapter 6 – An Unexpected Summons
Emma lived on the third floor of an aging brick walk-up in Pilsen, where the sound of the elevated train rattled the single-pane windows every twenty minutes.
She sat at her small kitchen table, staring at the small black card with Vincent Moretti’s name printed in raised gold lettering.
The clock on the wall read 2:15 AM.
In the adjoining bedroom, a small cough echoed through the thin door.
Emma stood up quickly, poured a cup of warm water, and slipped inside.
Her twelve-year-old brother, Liam, was awake, sitting propped up against two thin pillows.
His skin was pale, his eyes heavy with dark circles, and an inhaler rested beside his bedside table.
Liam suffered from severe chronic asthma and a congenital respiratory condition that required expensive imported medication—medication Emma had been struggling to afford with double shifts at the catering company.
“Emma?”
Liam whispered, his voice raspy.
“You’re home late.
Did something happen?”
Emma sat on the edge of the mattress, running her fingers through his messy brown hair with a warm smile.
“Nothing bad, Liam.
Just a very long night.”
“Did you get the tips from the rich people?” he asked innocently.
Emma looked down at her hands.
The bruises on her wrist were already turning purple.
“Not tips, Liam.
But things might be changing soon.
Go back to sleep, okay?
I need you to rest.”
She stayed by his side until his breathing evened out into deep slumber.
When she finally lay down on her worn couch, sleep eluded her.
Vincent Moretti’s intense, commanding gaze haunted her thoughts.
The next morning at 10:00 AM, the quiet street outside her apartment was disrupted by the low, velvety purr of an engine that clearly didn’t belong in Pilsen.
Emma pulled back the faded curtain and gasped.
Parked directly in front of her tenement building was a pristine midnight-black Maybach.
Stepping out of the passenger side was Julian Vance, dressed in the same crisp charcoal suit from the gala.
He looked up at the apartment numbers, adjusted his earpiece, and walked purposefully toward her front door.
A moment later, three sharp, measured knocks echoed through her small living room.
Chapter 7 – Inside the Moretti Empire
Moretti Tower rose eighty stories above the Chicago River, a monument of glass and steel piercing the morning clouds.
Emma felt intensely self-conscious walking through the marble lobby in her best clean jeans, a simple cream sweater, and plain canvas shoes.
