Chapter 2 - THE SEALED ENVELOPE IN THE KITCHEN
The glittering crystal chandeliers overhead seemed to dim as Nico De Luca turned his dark, intense gaze away from Evelyn Bennett and onto the thirty-six elite guests sitting in absolute, breathless silence.
The most feared man in Chicago was holding a dented blue metal lunchbox with a faded yellow star painted on the lid. His knuckles were stark white. The tattoos on his wrists, usually hidden beneath bespoke cuffs, strained against his skin as his grip tightened around the battered tin.
Sloane Mercer stepped forward, her diamond necklace flashing under the harsh ballroom lights, a nervous, forced smile plastered across her meticulously contoured face.
"Nico, darling," Sloane began, her voice dropping into an affected, honeyed tone. "It's just a sweet little gesture, of course. But we have a multi-course dinner prepared by a Michelin-trained chef. Having a retired cafeteria lady standing by the service door with... with leftovers is completely inappropriate for our engagement night."
Nico didn't look at her.
He didn't blink.
He carefully closed the lunchbox, his thumb tracing the worn yellow star that Mr. Bennett had painted thirty-one years ago when an orphaned eleven-year-old boy was too proud to take charity.
"Who told her to stand by the service door?" Nico asked. His voice was very quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made veteran syndicate captains check their sidearms and city councilmen look for the nearest exit.
Sloane hesitated, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second. "Well, I... I thought it best. The staff dining room is much more comfortable for her age group—"
"Rachel," Nico interrupted, his dark eyes shifting across the room to lock onto me where I stood frozen near the marble pillar.
My heart leapt into my throat. Every eye in the room turned toward me.
"Sir?" I managed to whisper, gripping my serving tray like a lifeline.
"Who put Mrs. Bennett by the service door?" Nico asked, his voice steady, carrying a heavy, latent power.
I swallowed hard. My mother’s overdue rent flashed through my mind, along with Sloane’s threat to ruin me if I ever crossed her. But looking at Evelyn Bennett’s gentle, wrinkled face—and then at Nico, who was holding the only symbol of pure kindness from his childhood—I couldn't lie.
"Miss Mercer instructed me to put her in the staff room, sir," I answered clearly, my voice ringing out across the vast, silent dining hall. "And she told me to throw the lunchbox in the trash."
An audible gasp echoed from a table near the back.
Sloane’s face turned the color of ash. "She's lying! Nico, don't listen to a hired domestic—she’s trying to sabotage our wedding because she's jealous!"
Nico slowly handed the blue lunchbox back to Evelyn, his expression softening as he gently patted her hand. "Auntie Ev, go with Rachel to the private parlor. There's a warm fire, and I want you to have actual dinner with me in ten minutes. No arguments."
Evelyn smiled, her eyes moist. "All right, Nico. But you eat that cookie. I baked it special."
"I will," he promised softly.
As I escorted Evelyn away toward the private family parlor, I felt the blistering heat of Sloane’s venomous glare burning into my back. But as the heavy mahogany doors closed behind us, cutting off the ballroom, my hand brushed against the pocket of my uniform apron.
Inside my pocket was the folded document Evelyn had handed me before Sloane interrupted us.
"Here," Evelyn whispered as we stepped into the warm, quiet parlor lit by a crackling fireplace. She gently touched my arm. "Before Nico comes in. Read it, Rachel. You need to know what's really happening in this house."
I unfolded the thick, cream-colored paper.
At the top was the official letterhead of the De Luca Foundation's legal department. Below it was a title deed transfer, dated just three days ago, signing over the entire commercial residential block where my mother’s apartment building stood—not to the tenants, not to the city, but directly to Sloane Mercer’s private shell corporation.
And beneath that was an eviction notice stamped with a thirty-day vacate order.
My breath caught in my throat. My mother’s apartment. The home she had lived in for forty years.
"Sloane bought the building," I breathed, my hands trembling violently. "She’s evicting everyone."
"She’s not just evicting them," Evelyn said grimly, sitting down in the velvet armchair by the fire. "She’s clearing the land to build a high-rise luxury casino, funded by skimming millions from the syndicate's charitable accounts. And she thinks Nico is too blinded by her family's political connections to ever check the ledgers."
Before I could process the staggering revelation, the parlor door swung open with a sharp click.
May you like
Nico De Luca walked in, his suit jacket removed, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the intricate dark ink winding up his forearms. He closed the door behind him and looked directly at us.
"Auntie Ev," Nico said, his voice hard as iron. "What is that paper in Rachel's hand?"
