Chapter 2 - The Midnight Knock
By two o'clock in the morning, the rain over Seattle had turned into a relentless downpour that beat against the cracked glass of Clara’s top-floor apartment in Capitol Hill.
The apartment smelled of damp plaster and cheap lavender soap. Her mother, Sarah, was sleeping fitfully in the adjacent bedroom, her thin chest rising and falling to the rhythmic click of her oxygen concentrator.
Clara sat at her small kitchen table, staring at three pieces of paper laid out beneath the weak yellow glow of a hanging bulb.
The first was a final eviction notice giving them fourteen days to vacate.
The second was a letter from the pharmacy stating that her mother’s kidney medication would not be refilled without a co-pay of twelve hundred dollars.
The third was her bank statement: thirty-four dollars and twelve cents.
She buried her face in her hands. The adrenaline from saving Isabella Moretti had finally drained away, leaving her body aching, her shoulders throbbing, and a cold, hollow terror taking root in her stomach.
She had done everything right. She had worked sixteen-hour days. She had given up her dream of finishing her nursing degree. She had swallowed her pride in front of arrogant middle-managers and wealthy diners who treated her like wallpaper.
And now, at two-thirty in the morning, she had nothing.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound shook the flimsy wooden door frame. It wasn't a polite knock. It was three deliberate, heavy impacts that sounded like a sledgehammer striking timber.
Clara jumped out of her chair, her heart slamming against her ribs.
She walked quietly to the door and looked through the tiny, scratched peephole.
Standing in the dimly lit, carpet-stained hallway were two men. Both were over six feet tall, dressed in pristine black wool overcoats, their hands folded neatly over their waists. Outside her building, parked directly beneath her window in a no-parking zone, sat a massive black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows, idling softly in the rain.
"Clara Vance?" one of the men called out. His voice was smooth, deep, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Clara kept her hand on the deadbolt. "Who are you?"
"My name is Frank Rossi. I am the head of security for Moretti Maritime."
Clara’s breath hitched. "I don't have anything to say to Mr. Moretti. I left his money at the restaurant."
"Mr. Moretti knows where you left the money, Miss Vance," Frank said quietly through the door. "He isn't here about the money. His mother has regained consciousness at Swedish Medical Center."
Clara hesitated, her hand softening on the lock. "Is she okay?"
"She is stable. And she has asked to see you."
"Now? It's nearly three in the morning."
"Mr. Moretti’s car is waiting downstairs," Frank replied. "He requested that you come with us immediately. He has several questions regarding what happened at table seven."
Clara looked back toward the bedroom where her sick mother was sleeping. "I can't leave my mother alone."
"There is a certified private care nurse currently sitting in a second vehicle downstairs," Frank said without missing a beat. "If you permit it, she will sit with your mother until you return. She has been fully credentialed and briefed on your mother’s medical condition."
Clara stared at the heavy wooden door. The sheer efficiency of it was horrifying. In less than six hours, Lorenzo Moretti had located her apartment, reviewed her mother’s medical records, hired a private nurse, and sent two armed men to her door.
May you like
She realized then that "no" was not an answer Lorenzo Moretti accepted.
She opened the door.
