Chapter 2 - The Red Umbrella on Belmont
The sleet storm had turned the sidewalks of Belmont Avenue into a treacherous sheet of gray slush.
Chloe limped off the train platform, her single intact heel sinking two inches into a frozen puddle. Her left foot was wrapped in an extra pair of cotton socks inside a broken loafer she had scavenged from her locker, and her inverted umbrella was missing two metal ribs, leaving her hair plastered to her cheeks in wet, dark curls.
Her studio apartment sat above a shuttered bakery on the corner of Elm. It was forty-five square yards of drafty floorboards, a radiator that clanked like a diesel engine, and a lock on the front door that opened if you jiggled the handle too enthusiastically.
She reached the bottom of her concrete stoop, fumbling through her oversized tote for her brass key ring.
A sleek, black Mercedes Maybach pulled silently to the curb behind her.
The engine didn't roar; it purred like an apex predator easing into the tall grass. The driver’s side door swung open, and Mateo stepped out, holding a massive, storm-grade black umbrella with a polished rosewood handle.
Chloe froze, her keys slipping from her numb fingers, hitting the wet concrete with a bright, metallic chime.
"Mr. Mateo?" she stammered, backing up until her shoulder hit the brick wall of the bakery. "I... I didn't steal the highlighters. I swear they're company property—"
Mateo didn't smile, but his dark eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine, bewildered amusement. He bent down, picked up her brass keys, wiped the slush off them with a pristine linen handkerchief, and pressed them into her palm.
"The Boss doesn't care about the highlighters, Chloe," Mateo said, holding the massive umbrella over her head, shielding her completely from the sleet. "He sent me to make sure you didn't break your other ankle on the ice."
He gestured toward the rear passenger door. The tinted window rolled down two inches, revealing Lorenzo Rossy sitting in the shadows of the leather interior, his white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, his flint-gray eyes studying her through the falling snow.
"Get in the car, Miss Bennett," Lorenzo’s baritone rumbled from the shadows.
"I live right here, Mr. Rossy," Chloe said, pointing a trembling finger toward the grimy front door of the apartment building. "It's literally six steps. I can make it without dying."
"Gianni’s associates traced your employment paperwork from the personnel agency thirty minutes ago," Lorenzo said, his voice flat, factual, and completely immovable. "Two men in a stolen sedan were sitting on your corner when my car arrived. Mateo handled them quietly behind the laundromat."
Chloe’s breath caught in her throat. Her knees went completely hollow. "They... they were here for me?"
"They were here because you noticed an extra zero on a shipping invoice and a wire beneath my desk," Lorenzo said, pushing the door open wider.
May you like
"Now get in the car before you freeze to death on my time."
Chloe didn't argue. She stepped off the curb, her broken shoe splashing into the puddle, and tumbled unceremoniously into the heated, leather-clad interior of the Maybach, landing half-across Lorenzo’s tailored wool lap.
