Chapter 2 - The Iron GateThe metal grate groaned as it was pulled outward, screeching against decades of rust. Isabella pressed herself flatter against the boiler tank, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"I know you're in there, little ghost," Lorenzo Moretti said. His tone wasn't threatening; it held a terrifyingly casual warmth, like a predator chatting with a mouse it had already trapped. "You left a very distinctive trail. Blood on the snow from that scraped knee you got vaulting the fence, and footprints that belong to a pair of women's Nike sneakers last manufactured in 2023. Not many of those left in the district."
Isabella swallowed hard, her throat burning. "I don't want any trouble. Take whatever I have. Just leave me alone."
A shadow filled the doorway as Moretti stepped inside. Even in the dim ambient light filtering from the alley, his presence was overwhelming. Tall, broad-shouldered, tailored suit immaculate despite the damp grime of the slums, and dark, piercing eyes that seemed to strip away the darkness itself. Behind him, two massive silhouettes filled the alley—armed, silent, and rigid.
"Trouble found you the moment you walked into my restaurant," Moretti said, his gaze locking onto her in the gloom. He reached into his coat pocket. Isabella flinched, bracing for the flash of steel or the click of a hammer.
Instead, he pulled out a small, warm object and tossed it gently toward her.
It landed with a soft clatter at her feet. She looked down. It was her knitted black glove, which she must have dropped while reviving the puppy.
"You left this on the white linen," Moretti continued, taking a slow step forward. "Along with a demonstration of advanced pediatric veterinary life support that I haven't seen outside of a top-tier surgical theater. You aren't a homeless vagrant, girl. Your hands are steady, your instincts are lethal, and you move like someone running for her life."
"I told you, you have the wrong person," Isabella lied, her voice cracking.
Moretti stopped two paces away. He crouched down slightly to meet her eye level—a dangerous move for a mob boss, showing total confidence. "My name is Lorenzo. The puppy's name is Dante. And Dante is currently sleeping like a log on a heated cashmere blanket because a ghost walked through my doors and refused to let him die."
He extended a hand. Not to grab her, but palm up, empty.
"Come out of the cold. We need to talk."
May you like
"Talk about what?" Isabella demanded, anger briefly flaring through her terror. "Are you going to kill me? Hand me over to someone else? Just get it over with!"
"Kill you?" A low, humorless chuckle vibrated in Moretti's chest. "You saved my dog, Isabella. In my world, debts are paid in full. And protection... protection is absolute."
