Chapter 2 - The Call
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Morning sunlight offered no warmth as it filtered through the dusty blinds of my living room. I sat on the edge of the sofa, nursing a cup of cheap black coffee.
My phone vibrated on the coffee table. The screen lit up with Marcus’s name.
It was the fifth call this morning. Last night, he had left two voicemails, slurring his words, demanding to know who the "suit" was and threatening to get me fired. I hadn't listened past the first ten seconds. I simply deleted them.
I looked down at my left hand. There was no pale line left where my wedding band used to be. The cheap cubic zirconia ring had barely left a mark. Marcus had taken it back during the divorce, claiming he needed to pawn it to cover his gambling debts. I had let him take it because fighting him was always more exhausting than losing.
I picked up the black card. The silver numbers seemed to mock my hesitation.
“Dinner,” he had said. A command, not a request.
I took a deep breath, picked up my phone, and dialed the number before my common sense could stop me.
It rang exactly once.
“Caruso,” a deep, gravelly voice answered. It wasn't Dante. It was someone older, someone who sounded like they smoked cigars for breakfast.
“Hi. My name is Emma,” I said, my voice remarkably steady despite the frantic beating of my heart. “I was given this number last night.”
There was a brief pause. I heard the sound of a door opening in the background.
“Miss Emma,” the man said, his tone instantly shifting from aggressive to perfectly polite. “Mr. Caruso is expecting your call. What is your address?”
“I don’t think—”
“A car will be downstairs at seven o’clock tonight,” the man interrupted smoothly. “Dress warmly. It’s going to snow.”
The line went dead.
May you like
I lowered the phone from my ear, staring at the blank screen. I hadn't even agreed to go, yet the decision had been made. I walked over to my small, disorganized closet. I didn't own anything that belonged in Dante Caruso’s world. The best thing I had was a simple, long-sleeved burgundy dress that I had bought at a thrift store three years ago.
It would have to be enough. I wasn't trying to impress a mafia boss. I was just trying to figure out why he had looked at a broken waitress and seen someone worth defending.
