Chapter 4 - THE LIGHT IN THE KITCHEN WINDOW
The ride down in the private service elevator was entirely silent, save for the low, mechanical hum of the cables sliding through the shaft. I kept my hand resting inside Dante’s, acutely aware of the warmth of his skin against mine, trying desperately to reconcile the man who owned half the commercial real estate in Chicago with the man who had just stood up to the most powerful snob in the ballroom to defend a waitress.
When the doors slid open, we stepped out into the underground valet garage, where a sleek, black town car was idling quietly near the exit ramps, its headlights cutting through the cool autumn mist.
Dante’s broad-shouldered bodyguard—the one who had watched the elder Ashford like a hawk upstairs—was already holding the rear door open.
“Take the ledger to the downtown office, Marcus,” Dante instructed, handing the black leather book through the window. “Have the legal team prepare the injunctions for the housing board filings by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. I want every single demolition permit in the East District frozen before the markets open.”
“Consider it done, boss,” Marcus replied crisply, closing the door and sliding into the driver's seat of a second vehicle parked behind us.
Dante opened the rear door of the town car for me, shielding the roof with his hand—a small, old-fashioned courtesy that felt entirely out of place in a city where men like him usually commanded doors to open themselves.
I slid across the leather seat, pulling my worn wool coat tightly around my shoulders. Dante climbed in beside me, closing the door with a muffled thump that cut off the distant sounds of the city entirely.
“You don't have to do this, Mr. Moretti,” I said quietly, staring down at my shoes as the car glided smoothly out of the garage and into the streaming neon lights of downtown Chicago. “The housing board... they’re connected to half the city council. If you pick a fight with the Ashford trust over a municipal zoning dispute, people are going to start asking why a syndicate boss is suddenly interested in a twenty-year-old waitress’s apartment.”
Dante turned slightly on the leather seat, resting one arm along the backrest behind my shoulders, his dark eyes studying my face in the dim dashboard light.
“Let them ask,” Dante said simply. “For five years, people in this city have assumed that because I operate in the shadows, I don't see what happens in the light. They think they can write laws in country clubs and evict families with a stroke of a pen while everyone looks the other way. They made a mistake tonight, Delaney. They forgot who actually built the foundations of this city.”
He reached out, his thumb gently brushing against the back of my hand where my knuckles were still red from carrying heavy silver trays.
“Tell me about your brother,” he said, his voice softening into something warm and patient. “What’s his name?”
“Leo,” I whispered, a small, involuntary smile touching the corners of my lips at the sound of his name. “He’s twelve. He wants to be an architect. If you walked into our apartment right now, you wouldn't see any furniture, but you’d see thirty different cardboard models of bridges and skyscrapers stacked up against every wall. He spends hours drawing blueprints on the back of grocery receipts.”
Dante’s expression softened further, a faint shadow of a smile crossing his hard features. “An architect. We can work with that. Chicago needs more builders and fewer politicians.”
The car turned off the brightly lit commercial avenue and slipped into a quieter, older neighborhood on the near west side—streets lined with brick two-flats, sycamore trees shedding dry autumn leaves across the curbs, and modest front porches with flickering porch lights.
We pulled up to the curb in front of 414 Maple Street—a weather-beaten, two-story brick building with peeling white paint around the window frames and a single, warm square of light glowing from the second-floor kitchen window.
My heart did a little double-tap against my ribs.
“He’s still awake,” I murmured, reaching for the door handle.
“Of course he is,” Dante said, opening his side of the car first and stepping out into the crisp autumn air before I could push my door open. “It’s twelve-year-old architect time. Bedtimes are just suggestions when you’re building the Sears Tower out of toothpicks and Elmer’s glue.”
I couldn't help it—I laughed, a real, genuine laugh that chased away the lingering cold of the ballroom floor.
We walked up the creaking wooden front steps together, the night air smelling of woodsmoke and damp earth. As I pulled my brass key from my coat pocket and slid it into the lock, I paused for a fraction of a second, suddenly hyper-aware of how small, how shabby, how terribly ordinary our little apartment looked compared to the world Dante Moretti lived in.
I pushed the door open, stepping into the small entryway where Leo’s muddy sneakers sat right beside a stack of old architectural magazines.
Before I could call out his name, a small figure came flying down the narrow hallway from the kitchen, crashing straight into my waist with a breathless hug.
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“Delaney! You’re home early!” Leo cried, burying his face in my coat. Then he pulled back, blinking in surprise as he looked past my shoulder and saw a six-foot-two man in an expensive dark coat standing quietly in our tiny, linoleum-floored foyer.
Leo’s eyes went wide. “Uh... hi?”
