Chapter 3 - The Contract on Wacker
"I'm sorry, what?" Penelope asked, standing in the quiet, dim alleyway behind Bellafonte at 11:30 PM.
The shift was over. The other servers had fled, and Martin Galloway had locked himself in his office to draft an apology email to corporate.
Standing in the alley, lit by a single overhead security lamp, was a sleek, black Maybach. Leaning against its rear door was Dominic Moretti. The cool autumn wind rustled the dark wool of his tailored coat.
"My father wants you to work for us," Dominic said plainly, his voice smooth and steady in the quiet night air.
Penelope crossed her arms over her chest, trying to ward off the cold. Her heavy shift had left her feet aching, but her mind was razor-sharp. "I'm a waitress, Mr. Moretti. Not a private chef."
"You are a woman who made my father weep over a bowl of pasta and smile for the first time since my mother died three years ago," Dominic corrected, taking a step toward her.
Up close, he was imposing. He smelled of expensive cedarwood cologne, fine tobacco, and power. But as Penelope looked up into his face, she didn't see the monster the tabloids whispered about. She saw a man carrying an immense, invisible weight on his broad shoulders.
"My father lives in our family estate in Long Island," Dominic explained, his tone dropping into a quiet, serious cadence. "He refuses to eat the food prepared by the executive chefs I hire. He claims they are trying to poison him with modern garbage. His health is declining, Penelope. His doctors say he is malnourished and depressed."
Penelope felt a tug at her heartstrings. She remembered how Agatha had withered away in her final years when she no longer had the strength to stand over her stove.
"What are you offering?" she asked cautiously.
Dominic reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sleek leather-bound checkbook and a fountain pen. "Ten thousand dollars a month. Private living quarters on the estate. Full medical benefits. You cook one meal a day for my father, talk to him in his language, and keep him company."
Penelope’s breath caught in her throat. Ten thousand a month. It was more than triple what she made wiping down tables at Bellafonte. It would pay off her mother’s medical debts in six months. It would buy her a reliable car. It would change her life.
"And what else?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"
A faint, approving smirk touched the corner of Dominic’s lips. "You are perceptive."
"I grew up in Bensonhurst, Mr. Moretti. Nobody gives away ten grand a month without a catch."
Dominic’s expression hardened slightly. "My family is currently navigating a sensitive business transition. There are people—competitors—who are watching the estate closely. They believe my father is weak. Having someone new inside the house will draw attention."
"You want me to be a distraction?"
"I want you to be a shield for my father's spirit," Dominic corrected firmly. "My security team will protect your physical safety. I give you my personal word on that. No one will touch a hair on your head while you are under my roof."
Penelope stared at the powerful man standing before her. She looked at his hand holding the pen—strong, steady, unyielding.
"I have conditions," she said.
Dominic raised an eyebrow. "Name them."
"One: I control the kitchen. No corporate chefs telling me how to cut garlic. Two: I get Sundays off to visit my mother in Brooklyn. And three: If your brother Julian ever speaks to me the way he did in the hallway tonight, I walk."
Dominic stepped closer, his deep grey-green eyes burning down into hers. The proximity sent a sudden, unexpected jolt of heat through Penelope’s veins.
"Julian will treat you with absolute respect," Dominic murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "Or I will break his fingers myself. Do we have a deal, Penelope?"
He extended his bare hand.
Penelope looked at his broad palm, then reached out and took it. His grip was warm, firm, and surprisingly gentle around her softer fingers.
May you like
"We have a deal, Mr. Moretti."
"Call me Dominic," he said softly, holding her hand a second longer than necessary before letting go. "Pack your bags. A car will pick you up at seven tomorrow morning."
