Chapter 7 - THE TAILOR’S DAUGHTER
The snow outside had stopped by midnight, leaving the Manhattan skyline sparkling beneath a pale, cold winter moon.
The twenty-eight guests were gone. The federal agents were gone. Even Sofia and her silver gown were nothing more than a memory of shattered glass near the service entrance.
Only Marco and a few cleanup crew members remained, quietly sweeping up the debris from the shattered door.
I stood by the coat-check counter, carefully folding my spare uniform numbers and placing them back into the wooden organizer box. My shift had officially ended an hour ago, but my legs felt too heavy to carry me toward the elevator.
“Nora.”
I looked up.
Dante Russo was standing a few feet away. He had removed his black overcoat—the one with the altered lining now resting in an evidence box on the table—and stood in his crisp white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
“Mr. Russo,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“You don't have to call me that anymore tonight,” he said, leaning casually against the edge of the mahogany counter. “Unless you want to keep practicing for my mother’s new workshop.”
A faint, nervous smile touched my lips. “I think working for your mother is going to be a lot harder than checking coats.”
“She’s seventy years old and still runs three charitable foundations and an import syndicate from her kitchen table,” Dante said, his lips curving into the first genuine smile I had seen on his face all evening. “You’ll survive.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, flat object wrapped in a paper towel.
The brass key labeled 88-B.
“My mother’s envelope contained the bank records,” Dante said, turning the key over in his palm. “But this little piece of brass is what started the whole thing tonight.”
“My mother always said a bad stitch tells a bigger story than the coat itself,” I murmured.
Dante looked at me closely, his dark eyes softening. “Your mother owned the dry-cleaning shop in Queens, right? On 41st Street?”
I blinked in surprise. “How did you know that?”
“Marco runs background checks on everyone who steps foot in this penthouse,” Dante said simply. “Even temporary coat-check staff.”
“Oh.” I felt a sudden flush of embarrassment. “Well... I guess you know about the rent, and the hospital bills, and why I needed this shift tonight.”
“I know that your mother kept that shop open for nineteen years without missing a single tax payment, and that three families in her neighborhood still talk about how she tailored winter coats for kids whose parents couldn't afford them,” Dante said quietly.
I looked down at the wooden counter, my throat tightening. “She taught me everything I know about seams. She always said that if you do a sloppy job on the inside of a garment, it means you don't care how it holds up when the weather turns cold.”
Dante reached across the counter, sliding a small white envelope toward my hand.
I looked down at it.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Your pay for tonight,” Dante said. “Plus overtime for stopping an international corporate espionage ring disguised as an engagement party.”
I hesitated, looking at the envelope. “Mr. Russo—Dante—I only did my job. I didn't mean to cause a scene.”
“You didn't cause a scene, Nora,” he said, his voice dropping into a warm, steady tone that made my heart skip a beat. “You saved my life. And more importantly, you saved my mother’s favorite coat.”
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed in my uniform pocket.
I pulled it out. A text message from St. Jude’s Hospital in Queens:
“Ms. Hayes, your mother’s specialist appointment for Friday has been covered by a private grant transfer. Please report to Room 402 at 10:00 AM.”
I stared at the screen, my breath catching.
I looked up slowly at Dante.
He was watching me with a quiet, knowing expression.
“You didn’t,” I whispered.
“I didn't do anything,” Dante said innocently. “Private medical grants are complicated things. Sometimes anonymous donors have extra funds to distribute before the fiscal year ends.”
My eyes filled with sudden, hot tears that I blinked back furiously. I wasn't the kind of girl who cried in front of billionaires.
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“Thank you,” I managed to say.
“Don't thank me yet,” Dante said, pushing the envelope a little closer. “You still have to report to Madison Avenue on Monday morning at nine o'clock. My mother doesn't tolerate tardiness.”
