Chapter 1 - THE CAR SHE REFUSED
Clara looked at the black SUV.
Then at the two men.
“No.”
The taller one blinked.
Not because he had misunderstood.
Because people probably did not say that word often enough around Lorenzo Moretti’s employees for them to develop a graceful response.
“Miss Vance,” he said, “Mr. Moretti would like to speak with you.”
“You already said that.”
“He’s waiting.”
“Then he can keep waiting.”
The second man glanced toward the rear passenger window.
Tinted glass.
Someone sat inside.
Of course.
Clara tightened both hands around the strap of her purse.
Fear arrived now.
Not in the lounge, where annoyance and exhaustion had carried her farther than good sense.
Here, in a rain-slick alley at three in the morning, with the kitchen lights going dark behind her and the subway entrance two blocks away, fear finally caught up.
It did not make her obedient.
It made her specific.
“I am not getting into a car with two strangers.”
“We work for Mr. Moretti.”
“That does not improve the sentence.”
The taller man’s mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
Then the SUV door opened.
Lorenzo stepped out.
No umbrella.
Rain darkened the shoulders of his charcoal jacket almost immediately.
He looked less composed outside his velvet booth.
More tired.
Still dangerous.
Clara’s hand went into her purse.
Not for a weapon.
Pepper spray.
Cheap.
Legal.
Probably useless against three men.
Still hers.
Lorenzo noticed.
“Keep your hand there if it makes you feel better.”
“Generous.”
One of his men looked horrified.
Lorenzo ignored him.
“I asked them to bring you.”
“They failed.”
“Yes.”
Good.
He looked toward the alley entrance.
“Would you speak to me somewhere public?”
Clara stared.
“You had an entire lounge.”
“You were working.”
“And now I’m not.”
“Exactly.”
That was irritatingly reasonable.
“What do you want?”
He took a photograph from inside his jacket.
Did not step closer.
Held it where she could choose to look.
Clara saw Maya immediately.
Her sister was leaving St. Catherine’s infusion clinic wearing the green coat Clara had bought secondhand last winter.
Maya’s dark hair was pulled into a loose braid.
Her face looked thin.
Behind her, across the street, stood a man with a phone raised.
The photograph itself had been taken from farther away.
Someone had photographed the person photographing Maya.
Clara’s lungs stopped working correctly.
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
She stepped forward despite herself.
“Who is that?”
“The man with the phone?”
“Yes.”
“Name is Reed Fallon. Freelance surveillance contractor.”
“Working for?”
“That is what I’m trying to prove.”
“Why is he following Maya?”
Lorenzo looked at her.
“Because your sister reported a medication lot that should not exist.”
Rain ran down Clara’s face.
For one second, she forgot Lorenzo entirely.
“What?”
“St. Catherine’s received four injectable biologic pens under a manufacturer lot number that had been retired eight months earlier.”
Clara’s stomach dropped.
Maya’s prescription.
The fifty dollars Clara was short.
The injections.
“No.”
“She wasn’t harmed.”
The answer came too quickly.
Clara stepped closer.
“Do not tell me what happened to my sister like she is a line in one of your files.”
His expression tightened.
“Fair.”
Good.
“What happened?”
“Maya noticed the packaging looked different from her previous dose. The clinic pharmacist confirmed the serial data didn’t reconcile and reported it to the manufacturer and state board.”
“Why would anyone follow her for that?”
“Because the distributor that supplied the shipment is connected to a company I am trying to stop my family from acquiring.”
There.
Not random.
“Your family.”
“Yes.”
“Which company?”
“Caruso Medical Logistics.”
Clara knew the name.
Everyone did.
Trucks.
Warehouses.
Hospital supply contracts.
Charity galas.
Respectable.
Mostly.
“Why would Moretti buy them?”
“My uncle wants a merger between Caruso Medical and two Moretti distribution businesses.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I think someone is using legitimate medical freight to move counterfeit and diverted specialty drugs.”
There.
Clara’s fingers turned cold around purse strap.
“You have proof?”
“Not enough.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“Because someone connected to the supply chain knows Maya made the report.”
“And your answer is to send men to put me in a car?”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“That was stupid.”
The taller guard looked at ground.
Lorenzo said:
“Yes.”
Good.
Clara hated how much that answer disarmed her.
“Is Maya safe now?”
“I don’t know.”
Wrong answer.
Correct answer.
Clara pulled out phone.
Called.
Three rings.
“Clara?”
Maya sounded sleepy.
Alive.
Clara closed eyes.
“Where are you?”
“At home. Why?”
“Are you alone?”
“No. Tessa’s here.”
Maya’s roommate.
Good.
“Lock the door.”
“Clara, what happened?”
“Just lock it.”
Silence.
Then:
“Okay.”
“Do not open for anyone.”
“Are you okay?”
Clara looked at Lorenzo.
“No.”
His face changed.
“But I will be.”
She hung up.
Lorenzo said:
“I can put an independent security car outside her building.”
“Independent?”
“Not my men.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t trust my men.”
There.
He was listening.
“Will she know?”
“Yes.”
“She gets to say no.”
“Yes.”
Good.
Clara texted Maya:
A security company may call. You can say no. Call me first.
Then looked at photograph again.
“Why were your people watching Fallon?”
“We weren’t.”
“What?”
“The picture came from a private investigator working for a pharmaceutical manufacturer.”
That was better.
“Why did you get it?”
“The manufacturer has counsel in common with a lawyer I hired for the Caruso review.”
Information sharing.
Lawyers.
Less cinematic.
More believable.
“Does Maya know she was photographed?”
“Not yet.”
“She hears from me.”
“Yes.”
Good.
Then Lorenzo said:
“There is another reason I needed to speak with you tonight.”
Clara laughed once.
“You have reached your quota.”
“I need a wife.”
Silence.
Rain hissed against pavement.
One of his men looked toward the sky as if asking God to remove him from the conversation.
Clara stared.
“You what?”
Lorenzo’s face remained completely serious.
“A legal wife.”
“Congratulations on understanding the word.”
“Temporary.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked you.”
“You said wife while standing in an alley with two men.”
“Fair.”
“Stop saying fair.”
His mouth almost moved.
Good.
Clara crossed arms.
“Explain.”
He took breath.
“My grandfather created a voting trust for Moretti Holdings.”
“Of course he did.”
“At thirty-five, my voting shares vest automatically.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Tragic.”
“Or earlier upon legal marriage.”
Clara stared.
“That is absurd.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He believed married men were less reckless.”
She looked at him.
“Your grandfather sounds exhausting.”
“He was.”
Good.
“Until vesting, twelve percent of my voting block remains controlled by a family trustee.”
“Your uncle.”
“Yes.”
“Who wants Caruso merger.”
“Yes.”
There.
“If you marry someone, you get the votes.”
“Within five business days after certificate and trustee verification.”
“And you want to marry me.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He did not react.
Good.
Clara continued.
“You do not know me.”
“I know enough.”
“That is worse.”
“You worked at Obsidian eleven months.”
“You had me investigated?”
“Tonight.”
Her face hardened.
He corrected quickly.
“Basic employment and public-record review after you walked away from my table.”
“Because I ignored your finger.”
“Yes.”
“That is insane.”
“Yes.”
Good.
“What did you learn?”
“That you have no criminal ties, no debt to my family, no corporate relationship with Caruso, no history with rival families, and you support your younger sister.”
Clara’s body stiffened.
“Stop.”
He did.
Good.
“My sister is not a qualification.”
“No.”
“Then why me?”
Lorenzo looked at her for a long moment.
“Because you refused me before you knew I needed something.”
That answer landed badly.
Then better.
Still not enough.
“You think that makes me trustworthy?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“It makes you less likely to agree because you are impressed by my name.”
Clara laughed.
“That is your sales pitch?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He continued.
“I had three other candidates suggested by family counsel over the last month.”
That made her feel worse and strangely better.
“Candidates.”
“Women from families connected to mine.”
“Alliance wives.”
“Yes.”
“And all of them create another owner in the room.”
His expression sharpened.
“I need a spouse who is not another family’s proxy.”
“So you chose a waitress.”
“I chose a woman who told me I looked capable of waiting.”
There.
Clara’s hands shook from cold now.
Or anger.
“Protection for Maya if I say no?”
“Yes.”
Immediate.
Good.
“Your investigation continues if I say no?”
“Yes.”
“The Caruso merger?”
“I find another way or another person.”
There.
Important.
Clara watched his face.
“You’re not going to tell me my sister dies if I refuse.”
“No.”
“Not going to say this is only way.”
“No.”
“Not going to pay her prescription as bait.”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
Good.
“Then I say no.”
Lorenzo nodded.
“Tonight.”
“No. Full sentence. I say no.”
He accepted it.
Good.
Then reached inside jacket again.
Clara’s hand tightened on pepper spray.
He stopped.
“Phone card.”
She stared.
“Use your hand slowly.”
He did.
A plain white card.
Name:
ELENA PARK
ATTORNEY AT LAW
PRIVATE CLIENT COUNSEL
“Who is she?”
“Independent lawyer. She does not represent Moretti.”
“Who pays?”
“Retainer deposited into escrow before she speaks to you. You choose whether to use it. If you don’t want money linked to me, she can refer you elsewhere.”
Better.
“Why?”
“If I ever ask again, I want you advised by someone whose job is saying no to me.”
There.
Clara took card.
Not agreement.
Just card.
Lorenzo stepped back.
“I’ll have the independent security firm call Maya only after you tell her why.”
“Good.”
“Your manager will be told you are off tomorrow with pay.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“Why?”
“Because then you are using my job.”
His face tightened.
“Then I do nothing.”
“Correct.”
Good.
She looked at his men.
“No car.”
“No car.”
“I’m taking the subway.”
“At three fifteen.”
“Yes.”
“Can an independent guard walk half a block behind you?”
“No.”
He almost argued.
Didn’t.
Good.
Clara walked away.
At the alley mouth, she turned.
Lorenzo still stood in rain.
No umbrella.
No order.
She held up attorney card.
“This is not a yes.”
“I know.”
Then she left.
At 3:42 a.m., Clara entered her apartment, locked three locks, called Maya, and told her everything except the marriage proposal.
That could wait until daylight.
At 4:16, Maya said something that made Clara sit down.
“The pen from last week made me sick.”
Clara’s heart stopped.
“What?”
“Only for a day. Fever. rash.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you’re already paying for half my medication.”
There.
Clara closed eyes.
Maya continued.
“The pharmacist told me not to use the second pen. That’s why they reported it.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
Good.
“Do not give it to anyone except the manufacturer investigator or state board, through the clinic.”
“Clara.”
“I’m serious.”
“Why?”
Clara looked at Lorenzo’s card on table.
Because someone had followed her sister.
Because a mafia boss wanted a wife to stop a merger.
Because a red blouse and one drop of water had somehow become the least important part of her night.
“Maya,” she said carefully, “I need you to trust me for one morning.”
Her sister went quiet.
Then:
“Okay.”
Clara looked at the white attorney card.
She still trusted it more than Lorenzo Moretti.
May you like
That was probably healthy.
But at sunrise, when she finally lay down, she did not throw it away.
