Chapter 1 - The Condition
“But there’s one condition.”
Adrien Varelli’s voice was so quiet that I had to lean closer to hear him.
Around us, Lavelle had gone completely still.
The last customer had left twenty minutes earlier. The lights above the marble bar had been dimmed. Chairs were stacked on half the tables. Even the kitchen staff, who normally escaped the second their shift ended, had somehow found reasons to linger near the swinging doors.
Everyone was watching Chicago’s most feared man stare at the wrist I had touched.
I swallowed.
“What condition, sir?”
Adrien lifted his eyes to mine.
“Touch me again.”
For several seconds, I honestly thought exhaustion had finally broken my brain.
“What?”
His bodyguards reacted before I did.
The largest one, a dark-haired man named Marco who always stood two steps behind Adrien, turned sharply.
“Boss.”
Adrien didn’t look at him.
“You heard me, Lena.”
I stared at Adrien’s hand.
At the expensive black watch.
At the faint scar running across the inside of his wrist.
Then I looked back at his face.
“You want me to touch you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
That question changed something in the room.
Employees did not ask Adrien Varelli why.
Men twice my age had lost jobs for speaking to him with less caution.
But I had spent the past fourteen hours carrying laundry bags, coffee trays, and dirty plates. My grandmother needed surgery. I had just been fired and rehired in the same sixty seconds.
Fear had stopped being useful.
Adrien stepped closer.
“Because when you grabbed me, something happened.”
My heart stumbled.
“What happened?”
“The noise stopped.”
I waited for him to explain.
He didn’t.
Marco did.
“Mr. Varelli has had enough for tonight.”
Adrien turned his head.
One look silenced him.
Then Adrien faced me again.
“Your job is safe for two weeks. During those two weeks, after your shift ends, you’ll sit with me for twenty minutes.”
I blinked.
“Sit with you?”
“In Booth Seven.”
Of course.
The booth that had gotten me fired.
“And what exactly am I supposed to do?”
His jaw tightened, almost as if the answer embarrassed him.
“Hold my wrist.”
A nervous laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Nobody else laughed.
I immediately covered my mouth.
“I’m sorry.”
For the first time, something almost human passed through Adrien’s expression.
Not a smile.
But close.
“I’m aware that it sounds strange.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Marco made a sound under his breath.
Adrien ignored him.
“You will be paid for the additional time.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
I surprised myself too.
“I mean, I need this job. Desperately. But I’m not taking money to touch you.”
“Why?”
“Because that makes it sound like something it isn’t.”
“And what is it?”
I glanced around at the guards.
“I have absolutely no idea.”
This time, Adrien did smile.
Only for a second.
It changed his entire face.
Then it disappeared.
“Tomorrow night,” he said. “Two-fifteen.”
He turned and walked toward the private exit.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I stood frozen beside Booth Seven, wondering what kind of deal I had just made.
At six-thirty the next morning, I was carrying two coffees and a paper bag into Rush University Medical Center.
My grandmother was awake.
Rosa Reyes had raised me from the time I was eight years old. She was seventy-one now, with silver hair she still insisted on pinning perfectly even in a hospital bed.
“You look terrible,” she announced.
“Good morning to you too.”
“You worked all night again.”
“I brought you the blueberry muffin.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
I sat beside her and opened the bag.
Grandma’s surgery had been delayed twice because insurance refused to cover a specialist she desperately needed. The hospital had stabilized her condition, but without the operation, every week mattered.
I smiled as if I wasn’t terrified.
She knew better.
“Lena.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that since you were eight.”
“And it keeps working.”
“No. It keeps annoying me.”
I laughed.
Then she noticed the black restaurant apron sticking out of my tote bag.
“Lavelle?”
I nodded.
Her fingers stopped.
“You still work there?”
“Of course. It pays better than the diner.”
Her face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Grandma.”
She stared at the name embroidered on the apron.
LAVELLE.
Then beneath it, in smaller letters:
A VARELLI PROPERTY.
The color left her face.
“Did you see him?”
I frowned.
“Who?”
“Adrien Varelli.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
She grabbed my wrist with surprising strength.
“Did you speak to him?”
I tried to laugh.
“That depends on your definition of speak.”
“Lena.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled with fear.
Not dislike.
Fear.
“Listen to me. You stay away from that man.”
I slowly pulled my chair closer.
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“You just turned white after hearing his name.”
“I know his family.”
A cold sensation moved through me.
Grandma rarely spoke about the years before my parents disappeared.
Whenever I asked about my mother and father, she gave me the same answer.
They loved you.
They made mistakes.
And some questions are safer left unanswered.
I had stopped asking when I was seventeen.
Now she looked like every unanswered question had walked into the hospital room wearing a black suit.
“Grandma,” I whispered, “what do the Varellis have to do with Mom and Dad?”
Her eyes closed.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then she turned her face toward the window.
“Your mother once worked for Adrien’s father.”
I forgot how to breathe.
“What?”
“She was young. Twenty-two. She worked at a rehabilitation clinic. Matteo Varelli paid for private treatment there after his son was rescued from a kidnapping.”
Adrien.
I remembered the way he had stared at his wrist.
The noise stopped.
Grandma continued.
“Years later, your father worked security for the Varelli family.”
I stood so quickly my chair scraped the floor.
“You told me Dad worked construction.”
“He did. Before that.”
“Why did you lie?”
“Because the truth got them killed.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I stared at her.
“My parents disappeared.”
Grandma’s eyes filled with tears.
“That’s what I told you because you were eight years old and already waking up screaming.”
I couldn’t move.
“Are they dead?”
“I know your father is.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
I gripped the edge of the bed.
“And my mother?”
“I don’t know.”
A machine beeped softly beside us.
I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Everything else disappeared.
“How did Dad die?”
Grandma looked toward the door before lowering her voice.
“He found something inside the Varelli organization. Something he said could destroy the family from within.”
“What?”
“He never told me.”
“Who killed him?”
Her eyes met mine.
“I don’t know for certain.”
“Then what do you know?”
She squeezed my hand.
“Three nights before your father vanished, he came to my apartment with blood on his shirt. Not his blood. He made me promise that if anything happened to him, I would take you and never go near the Varellis.”
My pulse hammered.
“What about Mom?”
“She disappeared four days later.”
A terrible possibility took shape.
“Adrien’s father?”
Grandma shook her head.
“Your father trusted Matteo.”
“Then who was he afraid of?”
She looked at me for a long moment.
“Matteo’s younger brother.”
My mouth went dry.
“Carlo Varelli?”
Even I knew that name.
Carlo was Adrien’s uncle.
His adviser.
The man newspapers called a philanthropist and everyone else called the second most dangerous Varelli in Chicago.
Grandma nodded once.
Then her eyes dropped to my hands.
“You said you spoke to Adrien.”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How close were you?”
I thought of his wrist beneath my fingers.
“Close.”
Her grip tightened.
“Lena, you need to quit.”
“I can’t.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
“I do. Your surgery—”
“I would rather die than bury you.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I mean it.”
I leaned closer.
“Grandma, Adrien didn’t threaten me.”
“His family doesn’t have to threaten people.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Neither do you.”
That stopped me.
Because she was right.
At two-fourteen the next morning, I stood in front of Booth Seven with my hands clasped so tightly my knuckles hurt.
Adrien was already sitting there.
No jacket.
No tie.
His white shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
Marco stood near the private dining room door.
Two other guards waited farther back.
Adrien looked at the clock.
“You’re early.”
“By one minute.”
“I value punctuality.”
“I noticed.”
I slid into the booth across from him.
He placed his left forearm on the table.
I stared at it.
“This still feels insane.”
“I agree.”
“Good.”
“Lena.”
“Yes?”
“Are you afraid of me?”
I considered lying.
“Yes.”
His face remained calm.
“Yet you came.”
“I need my job.”
“That isn’t the only reason.”
I thought about Grandma.
About my father.
About Carlo Varelli.
“No,” I admitted. “It isn’t.”
His gaze sharpened.
“What changed?”
I should have told him.
I almost did.
Then I remembered Grandma saying, I would rather die than bury you.
So I reached across the table.
My fingers settled around Adrien’s wrist.
His entire body went still.
Not tense.
Still.
His eyelids lowered.
A breath left him.
Then another.
The hardness disappeared from his face.
He looked younger.
Tired.
Almost peaceful.
I felt the slow beat of his pulse beneath my fingertips.
After several seconds, he opened his eyes.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“That’s good?”
“You have no idea.”
His voice had changed.
The terrifying Mafia boss everyone feared sounded like a man who had been awake for years.
I loosened my grip.
He immediately looked at me.
“Don’t.”
The word came too quickly.
Too honestly.
I held his wrist again.
His shoulders lowered.
I studied the scar beneath my thumb.
“What happened here?”
His eyes moved to the scar.
“I was eleven.”
“The kidnapping?”
His gaze snapped to mine.
I realized too late that ordinary waitresses were probably not supposed to know the details.
“Chicago talks,” I said.
For several seconds, he watched me.
Then he nodded.
“They tied my wrists for six days. After I was rescued, I couldn’t tolerate being touched.”
My chest tightened.
“Not even family?”
“My mother could touch my hair sometimes.”
“What about doctors?”
“Sedation. Gloves. Warnings. Distance.”
“And women?”
A strange expression crossed his face.
“Especially women who thought they could cure me.”
“I’m not trying to cure you.”
“I know.”
“Then why me?”
He looked down at my hand.
“I don’t know.”
A door opened behind us.
Marco stepped forward.
“Boss.”
Adrien didn’t move.
“What?”
“Your uncle is here.”
My blood turned cold.
Carlo Varelli entered Lavelle wearing a charcoal suit and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
He was in his early sixties, silver at the temples, handsome in the polished way of men who had spent a lifetime being obeyed.
He took three steps into the room.
Then he saw my hand around Adrien’s wrist.
He stopped.
The smile vanished.
His eyes moved from Adrien to me.
And for one terrible second, Carlo Varelli looked as though he had seen a ghost.
“What,” he asked softly, “is her name?”
Adrien’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
Carlo never looked away from me.
“Because she has Sofia Reyes’s eyes.”
My mother’s name fell into the room like a gunshot.
May you like
And I realized my grandmother had been right.
The Varellis knew exactly who I was.
