Chapter 6 - Everything Money Couldn’t Buy
The first gift Nico sent me after I left was nothing.
No flowers.
No jewelry.
No car waiting outside Dawson & Reed.
No envelope of cash.
Nothing.
It was exactly what I had asked for.
And I hated how much that mattered.
Two weeks passed.
I worked.
I grocery-shopped.
I paid June half the rent even after she argued.
I bought a secondhand drafting table online and spent an entire Sunday restoring it.
Life slowly developed ordinary rhythms.
Then Evelyn called me into her office.
“Close the door.”
That sentence never meant anything good.
I sat.
She slid a folder toward me.
Inside was a proposal for a major redevelopment project on the South Side.
Affordable apartments.
Retail space.
Public green areas.
A childcare center.
I looked up.
“This is huge.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“I’m not.”
She pointed to the ownership section.
My stomach tightened.
Moretti Urban Development.
I stared at her.
Evelyn folded her arms.
“Conflict?”
“Yes.”
“How significant?”
“The owner is Nico.”
“The Nico?”
“Yes.”
She sighed.
“Of course he is.”
“I didn’t know his company was bidding.”
“He didn’t bid through us. City consortium did. We’re shortlisted.”
I pushed the folder away.
“I can’t.”
Evelyn did not touch it.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
“Because you’re afraid he’ll use the project to get near you?”
“Yes.”
“Then ask.”
I stared at her.
“Ask him?”
“Yes. Adults sometimes communicate. Disappointing, I know.”
So I did.
I called.
Nico answered quietly.
“Hi.”
That single word sounded almost cautious.
“Did you know Dawson & Reed was shortlisted for your South Side project?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
I heard papers moving.
“Give me a minute.”
A door opened.
He spoke to someone in the background.
Then returned.
“Our development team selected six firms. Yours is one.”
“You didn’t request us?”
“No.”
“Would you remove us if I asked?”
A pause.
“If that’s what you want.”
I had expected resistance.
That irritated me.
“Why are you being reasonable?”
Nico almost laughed.
“I’m experimenting.”
I looked at the folder.
“What exactly is the project?”
“Legitimate.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It’s something I should have done years ago.”
He explained.
Several properties his companies owned had been purchased cheaply during periods when he cared mostly about leverage and profit.
Now he wanted to redevelop them.
Not luxury towers.
Housing.
Stores.
Community facilities.
“Why?”
I asked.
Nico was silent.
Then he said, “Because I found your sketchbook.”
My chest tightened.
“You went through my things?”
“It was in the nightstand.”
“Nico.”
“I opened it because I thought you’d left a note.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
He continued.
“You drew a neighborhood center.”
I remembered.
An imaginary project I had sketched during one of the many evenings he was absent.
“Don’t build something because you think it’ll bring me back.”
“I’m not.”
“How can I know?”
“You can’t.”
Again, an answer I wasn’t prepared for.
“All I can do is build it even if you never see it.”
That stayed with me.
Dawson & Reed remained in the competition.
I requested not to lead the presentation.
Evelyn rejected my request.
“If we win, it will be because your design is strongest.”
“What if he favors us?”
“Then I’ll withdraw personally and embarrass him publicly.”
I smiled.
“You would?”
“With enthusiasm.”
We worked for three weeks.
My design preserved several existing brick buildings instead of demolishing them.
We created courtyard spaces.
A public library branch.
Daycare.
Small-business storefronts with controlled rents.
When presentation day arrived, I walked into a conference room and saw Nico seated at the far end.
He did not react.
No smile.
No special treatment.
Professional.
I presented for forty minutes.
For once, Nico listened while I spoke about something I understood better than he did.
That had never happened in our relationship.
It felt strange.
Powerful.
At the end, a board member asked about preserving the old factory façade.
I explained the history.
The cost.
Why I believed communities deserved continuity, not constant erasure.
Nico’s eyes stayed on me.
I realized as I spoke that the argument was not only about buildings.
Not everything damaged needed to be destroyed.
But preservation required honesty about what could still support weight.
Two days later, Dawson & Reed won.
I confronted Evelyn.
“Was it him?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Moretti voted for another firm.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“He recused himself after the second round and initially ranked us second.”
That evening, I called him.
“You voted against us?”
“I didn’t vote against you.”
“You ranked another proposal first.”
“It had better financing.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s funny?”
“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever disappointed me and made me respect you simultaneously.”
He was quiet.
Then, softly, “I’ll take it.”
The project brought us into occasional professional contact.
Always scheduled.
Always public.
Nico never used meetings to discuss us.
That discipline did more than expensive apologies could have.
Still, Salerno remained.
His companies were under pressure.
Accounts had been frozen.
Investigations had begun.
And men accustomed to control rarely accepted losing it calmly.
Arthur warned Nico.
“He’s desperate.”
“Desperate is predictable.”
“Not always.”
“Keep Norah out of it.”
Arthur gave him a tired look.
“We’re trying.”
One Friday evening, I stayed late at the office.
When I finally descended to the parking garage, I noticed someone standing near my car.
A man in a gray coat.
Not Nico’s.
I stopped.
He smiled.
“Ms. Quinn?”
I backed away.
“Who are you?”
“My employer would like five minutes.”
“No.”
“Nothing unpleasant.”
“That’s what unpleasant people say.”
I turned toward the elevator.
Another man stepped from behind a pillar.
My heart jumped.
The first man raised his hands.
“Please. We only want you to deliver a message to Mr. Moretti.”
“I don’t deliver messages.”
“Perhaps you should hear this one.”
He placed an envelope on the hood of my car.
Then both men walked away.
I waited until they disappeared before approaching.
Inside the envelope was a single piece of paper.
A list of dates.
Locations.
Company names.
And at the bottom:
ASK NICO HOW MANY YEARS IN PRISON THESE ARE WORTH.
I should have called him.
Instead, I did something the old Norah would never have done.
I called an attorney.
My attorney.
Not Nico’s.
And by midnight, I understood that Victor Salerno had made a mistake.
He thought I was still a woman who would carry someone else’s message.
May you like
He was about to discover that I had finally found my own voice.
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