Chapter 2 - One Thousand Dollars an Hour
Tessa slept for forty-three minutes.
She knew because she checked the clock the first time she woke from a dream in which someone was speaking Italian behind a locked door.
1:17 a.m.
The second time, it was 2:06.
Then 2:49.
At 4:11, she gave up.
She sat at her kitchen table wearing sweatpants and one of her mother’s old college sweatshirts while the mysterious note lay beside a cup of coffee.
Do not listen tomorrow night.
Her first instinct had been to call Matteo.
Her second instinct had been to throw the note away and pretend she had never seen it.
Her third instinct, the one that eventually won, was anger.
Someone had followed her.
Someone knew where she worked.
Someone knew about Matteo’s proposal.
And someone believed fear would control her.
Tessa had spent most of her adult life being controlled by numbers.
Rent.
Medical bills.
Hourly wages.
Interest rates.
Collection notices.
She had very little patience left for being controlled by strangers.
At six fifteen, she photographed the note.
At six twenty, she put it in a plastic sandwich bag.
At six thirty, she called the number Matteo had written on the back of his business card.
He answered on the first ring.
“Tessa.”
She frowned.
“You knew it was me?”
“I gave you a private number.”
“Do you always answer private numbers at six thirty in the morning?”
“I was awake.”
“Why?”
A pause.
“Because I work.”
She almost laughed.
Of course.
Powerful men apparently believed sleep was optional.
“I need to show you something.”
His tone changed immediately.
“What happened?”
“Can we meet?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Tessa.”
“I’m fine.”
“Where?”
She looked through her apartment blinds.
“Coffee shop across from Union Station. Seven fifteen.”
“I’ll be there.”
He arrived at seven eleven.
No suit.
No bodyguards.
Dark trousers, black sweater, charcoal coat.
He looked less like the feared Matteo Moretti from newspaper photographs and more like an exhausted businessman who had slept even less than she had.
He sat across from her.
Tessa slid the plastic bag over.
Matteo read the note.
Nothing moved in his face.
That frightened her more than anger would have.
Then she showed him the text.
“Who knows about tomorrow?” she asked.
“Six people.”
“You said six guests.”
“They know dinner exists. They do not know about you.”
“Someone does.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I intend to find out.”
Tessa leaned back.
“This agreement is over.”
Matteo looked at her.
“You’re right.”
The answer surprised her.
She had expected negotiation.
Pressure.
More money.
Instead he continued.
“You should not come tonight.”
Tessa narrowed her eyes.
“That easy?”
“This changes the situation.”
“I thought people in your world enjoyed dangerous situations.”
“My world?”
“The world where people send death threats over dinner.”
His jaw tightened.
“I did not know anyone knew I had hired you.”
“You said you needed someone they didn’t know was listening.”
“I did.”
“You failed.”
“Yes.”
There was something unsettling about Matteo admitting failure without excuses.
“Then why do I feel like you still want me there?”
“Because I do.”
“But you just told me not to come.”
“I want information. I do not want you dead.”
Tessa stared at him.
“That is a remarkably low standard of employment.”
His expression almost softened.
“I’m aware.”
She looked at the note again.
“Suppose I still come.”
“No.”
“You’re telling me no?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Tessa.”
“The person who sent this expects me to disappear.”
“That should be exactly what you do.”
“And then what?”
“I handle it.”
“With money?”
“With whatever is necessary.”
She looked at him.
“There.”
“What?”
“That.”
“What?”
“You think everything can be handled if you have enough power.”
Matteo’s eyes darkened.
“Most things can.”
“My mother believed that.”
He stopped.
“She spent twenty-six years working billing departments in hospitals. She believed if she worked enough overtime, saved enough, followed every rule, she could control what happened to us.”
Tessa looked down at her coffee.
“Then she got sick.”
Matteo said nothing.
“Cancer doesn’t care how responsible you are.”
“No.”
“Neither do debt collectors.”
“No.”
“She died and left me bills that were technically mine because I signed paperwork while she was unconscious.”
Matteo’s jaw hardened.
“You should have had an attorney.”
“I should also have had a trust fund and a vacation home.”
“Tessa—”
“My point is that fear already makes too many decisions in my life.”
She pushed the note toward him.
“I’m going tonight.”
“No.”
“You hired me.”
“I’m firing you.”
“You haven’t paid me yet.”
“You’ll receive the four thousand anyway.”
Tessa stared at him.
“No.”
“I promised payment.”
“For work.”
“I’m changing the agreement.”
“You’re trying to buy my compliance.”
Matteo’s expression changed.
“Sometimes money solves problems.”
“Not this one.”
They stared at each other across the little table while commuters rushed outside.
Finally Matteo asked, “Why are you doing this?”
Tessa thought about the note.
“Because somebody believes I’m weak.”
Matteo’s voice softened.
“That is not a good reason to risk your life.”
“It’s the only reason I have left that belongs entirely to me.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he pulled out his phone.
“If you insist on coming, the entire security protocol changes.”
“I said no weapons.”
“No visible weapons.”
“That isn’t what we agreed.”
“That agreement ended when somebody threatened you.”
Tessa opened her mouth.
Matteo raised one hand.
“I will not negotiate this.”
“Then I won’t come.”
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Thirty seconds passed.
Finally he muttered something in Italian.
Tessa’s eyes narrowed.
“I understood that.”
“I know.”
“You called me impossible.”
“You are.”
“You’re not exactly relaxing company.”
A reluctant smile appeared.
Then vanished.
“Fine,” he said. “No weapons inside the dining room. Security outside every entrance.”
“Deal.”
“And you do exactly what I tell you if something goes wrong.”
“No.”
“Tessa.”
“I’m not agreeing to blind obedience.”
“Then agree to listen when the person who understands the threat tells you to move.”
She considered.
“That’s fair.”
At seven twenty-eight that evening, Tessa entered the Moretti Grand Hotel wearing her ordinary uniform.
White shirt.
Black skirt.
Black apron.
Forty-five-dollar shoes.
Nothing about her looked unusual.
That was the entire point.
Matteo met her near the service corridor.
His eyes went directly to her face.
“You came.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m reconsidering every decision that brought us here.”
“That makes two of us.”
He handed her a small earpiece.
She pushed it back.
“No recording.”
“It’s not recording. It’s one-way communication from security.”
“No.”
“Tessa.”
“No.”
He exhaled.
“Fine.”
The guests began arriving.
Six men from Italy.
Executives from Bellandi Shipping.
At least according to the official documents.
They were polite.
Expensively dressed.
Confident.
Their lead negotiator was a silver-haired man named Carlo Vescari.
Tessa served wine.
They spoke English whenever Matteo addressed them.
For the first hour, nothing happened.
Contracts.
Shipping lanes.
Construction material.
Insurance.
Port fees.
Then Matteo stepped away to take a call.
The moment the door closed behind him, Carlo switched to Italian.
He looked at the younger man beside him and said softly:
“Moretti suspects someone inside his company.”
The younger man smiled.
“He suspects the wrong person.”
Tessa kept pouring wine.
Her pulse jumped.
Carlo continued.
“What about the waitress?”
Tessa nearly spilled the bottle.
The younger man glanced directly at her.
Then laughed.
“She’s nobody.”
Carlo watched her for another second.
“Are you certain?”
“She barely makes rent. People like that don’t become dangerous.”
Tessa forced herself to breathe.
The younger man lowered his voice.
“After tonight, Moretti will never know who redirected the containers.”
Carlo nodded.
“And the girl?”
Tessa’s hand stopped.
Girl?
The younger man’s expression changed.
“Still alive.”
“Where?”
“Warehouse Seventeen.”
Tessa’s heart slammed.
Carlo whispered something so quietly she almost missed it.
“The girl cannot be allowed to speak. She saw Gabriel.”
A glass slipped from Tessa’s tray.
It struck the carpet without breaking.
Everyone looked at her.
Tessa smiled nervously.
“Sorry.”
The younger man laughed in English.
“Careful.”
Tessa bent down.
As she reached for the glass, she saw something beneath Carlo’s chair.
A photograph.
It had fallen from his coat.
A teenage girl stood beside a chain-link fence.
Her hands were tied.
And written across the bottom in black marker were two words.
Tessa Hart.
She froze.
The girl in the photograph was not Tessa.
But on the girl’s neck was a small silver pendant.
Tessa recognized it instantly.
Her mother had owned the exact same one.
And suddenly the dinner was no longer about shipping contracts.
May you like
It was about her.
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