Chapter 1 - The Pin That Drew Blood and the Man Watching My Father’s Shop
I was fitting a suit for Chicago’s most feared mafia boss when he suddenly asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?” I whispered, “Not yet…” Seconds later, my tailor’s pin was buried in his chest, his blood stained my hand, and the most dangerous man in the city leaned close and said coldly, “Keep it that way.”
Rain struck the windows of my father’s tailor shop on Milwaukee Avenue while Noah Moretti stood on the fitting platform in a half-finished charcoal suit.
Everyone on the West Side knew his name.
People whispered it in bars, funeral homes, and back rooms with locked doors. They said Noah never shouted because men obeyed him before he needed to.
To me, he was a client.
A terrifying one—but still a client.
And I needed his money badly enough to pretend my hands were not shaking.
“Raise your arms,” I said.
He obeyed slowly, watching me through the cracked mirror as I wrapped the measuring tape around his chest.
Behind us, his bodyguard stood by the door with one hand beneath his jacket.
Noah noticed me looking.
“You afraid of guns?” he asked.
“I’m more afraid of unpaid rent.”
His mouth twitched, almost amused.
My father’s shop was three months behind. The radiator barely worked. That morning, another red-lettered bank notice had arrived.
If Noah walked out unhappy, we could lose everything.
I moved behind him to measure his waist. My fingers brushed the cold edge of the holster hidden beneath his jacket.
I did not flinch.
His eyes met mine in the mirror.
“You’re either very brave,” he murmured, “or very foolish.”
“Hold still, Mr. Moretti.”
I climbed onto a wooden stool and placed three pins between my lips while marking his shoulder seam.
That was when he asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
The question struck harder than a threat.
His bodyguard stopped chewing.
Even the old radiator seemed to go silent.
I looked down at Noah.
His face was calm, but his eyes were not.
“Yes” might give him someone to investigate.
“No” sounded too much like permission.
So I gave him the truth.
“Not yet.”
His gold lighter snapped shut with a sharp crack.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m single. It does not mean I plan to stay that way forever.”
“Who?”
I frowned. “Who what?”
“Who are you waiting for?”
Anger pushed through my fear.
“There is no one. I work fourteen hours a day. I barely have time to eat.”
“Good.”
The word sounded like ownership.
“You do not get to say good.”
His expression changed.
I stepped backward, but my heel slipped from the stool.
I grabbed his arm.
The pins in my hand drove into his chest.
Noah hissed.
A red stain spread across his white shirt.
His bodyguard lunged toward me.
Noah raised one hand.
“Outside.”
“Boss—”
“Now.”
The door closed behind him.
We were alone.
I pressed a cloth to Noah’s wound, but he caught my wrist and held my palm against his chest.
His heartbeat was steady.
Mine was wild.
“You still haven’t answered me,” he said.
“There is no one.”
His thumb brushed the pulse beneath my skin.
“Keep it that way.”
I tore my hand free.
“You pay for my work. You do not own my life.”
Noah buttoned his vest over the bloodstain and stepped toward the door.
Then he paused.
Without looking back, he said, “Lock the shop after I leave.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
His eyes shifted toward the rain-soaked window.
“Because the man across the street has been watching you for three days—and he is not one of mine.”
He left.
I immediately locked the door.
Then I ran to the front window.
The street was almost empty.
Rain blurred the neon signs.
Cars hissed through puddles.
Across the street, beneath a black umbrella, stood a man in a brown coat.
He was watching the shop.
Watching me.
Then a bus passed.
When it moved on, he was gone.
My heart hammered.
I turned toward the fitting platform.
Noah had left his jacket.
I picked it up.
It was heavier than it should have been.
Something hard was hidden inside the inner lining.
I hesitated.
Then I found a small envelope.
No name.
No address.
Only one symbol drawn in black ink.
A pair of crossed scissors.
My father's scissors.
I froze.
My father had used that symbol for years.
He carved it into the wooden handle of every pair he owned.
But there was something else.
Inside the envelope was a photograph.
My father.
Standing beside a younger Noah Moretti.
I had never seen them together.
And my father had always told me he had never met Noah.
The back of the photograph contained a handwritten sentence.
He doesn't know what your father did to him.
My hands went cold.
My father was upstairs.
He had been ill for months.
I ran up the narrow staircase.
“Dad?”
No answer.
His bedroom door was open.
The bed was empty.
The window was open.
The curtains were blowing in the rain.
My father was gone.
On his pillow sat another envelope.
My name was written across it.
Maya.
I opened it.
There was only one sentence.
Do not trust Noah Moretti, even when he is the only man standing between you and death.
I read it twice.
Then the phone rang.
It was Noah.
I answered cautiously.
“What happened?”
“Your father is missing.”
My knees weakened.
“How do you know?”
“Because three men just entered the building where his medical records are stored.”
“What?”
“Listen to me.”
His voice was different now.
No teasing.
No cold amusement.
Pure command.
“Leave the shop.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“My father is gone.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
Silence.
Then he said:
“Because I was trying to find him before they did.”
I stared at the photograph.
“You knew my father.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
Another pause.
“Six years.”
I felt betrayed before I even knew why.
“You lied to me.”
“I didn't know you.”
“You knew my family.”
“I knew enough to know your father was in danger.”
“From whom?”
Noah's voice became low.
“From my father.”
I stopped breathing.
“Your father is dead.”
“So is yours.”
The line went silent.
I looked at the photograph again.
My father.
Noah.
Six years ago.
And suddenly I understood that the suit fitting had never been about a suit.
Noah Moretti had come into my father's shop because he was looking for something.
Or someone.
And now my father was missing.
I heard a car door slam outside.
Then another.
I looked through the window.
Three black SUVs had stopped in front of the shop.
Men got out.
Noah's voice came through the phone.
“Maya.”
“Yes?”
“Do not open that door.”
A fist struck the glass.
I stepped backward.
Another blow.
Then a man's voice shouted:
“Open up!”
I looked at the photograph.
Then at the stairs leading to my father's empty bedroom.
Noah spoke again.
“I am coming.”
“Why?”
“Because I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“You aren't the bait.”
My breath caught.
“What am I?”
His answer came quietly.
“The key.”
May you like
The front door exploded inward.
And the night my life stopped belonging to me began.
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