Chapter 2 - The Setup
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Within seconds, the kitchen was swarming with men in dark suits. Elvira found herself shoved roughly against the stainless-steel prep counter, her arms pinned behind her back by two massive security guards. Across the room, paramedics who had been on standby for the massive gala rushed in, lifting Leo and Mia onto stretchers and wrapping them in thermal foil blankets.
“I didn't touch them!” Elvira shouted, struggling against the heavy grip of the guards. “She locked them in! I broke the lock to get them out!”
Isabella stood near the doorway, weeping delicate, perfectly timed tears into a silk handkerchief. She pointed a trembling finger at Elvira.
“She’s lying,” Isabella sobbed, playing the distraught fiancée to absolute perfection. “I came into the kitchen to check on the catering, and I saw her shoving them inside! She was trying to hide them! She must have been planning to sneak them out through the service exit!”
Chef Marco stood frozen near the stoves, his face pale.
“Search her belongings,” one of the security chiefs ordered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Don't let her move an inch.”
A guard marched over to the temporary staff lockers in the hallway. He returned three minutes later, holding Elvira’s battered canvas backpack. He unzipped the main compartment and turned it upside down over the prep table.
Elvira’s breath caught in her throat.
Tumbling out from her spare uniform and worn sneakers were thick, banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Ten thousand dollars in untraceable cash hit the metal table with a heavy thud.
“I have never seen that money in my life!” Elvira screamed, terror finally clawing its way up her throat. “She planted it! She set me up!”
Isabella gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “She took a payoff from a rival family. She was going to sell Lorenzo’s nephew and niece to his enemies.”
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The guards tightened their grip on Elvira, their faces hardening into masks of pure hatred. In the Chicago underworld, harming a boss's family was a death sentence. There was no trial. There was only the basement.
The heavy kitchen doors swung open one final time, and the chaotic noise in the room died instantly. Lorenzo Moretti stood in the doorway. He wore a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, but the civilized veneer was completely gone. His dark eyes locked onto the cash on the table, then shifted slowly to Elvira. The temperature in the room plummeted.
