Chapter 1 - The Man Who Refused to Get Out
By the time three men in black suits surrounded Riley Morgan’s tow truck, she had already strapped down the front wheels of the most expensive car she had ever impounded.
That was unfortunate for them.
Because Riley Morgan had a rule.
Once the straps were on, the argument was over.
“Ma’am,” the tallest man said carefully, as though speaking too loudly might trigger something unpleasant. “You need to lower the vehicle.”
Riley gave the ratchet another hard pull.
Click.
“No.”
The man stared at her.
Behind him rose the Mercer Grand, one of Chicago’s newest luxury hotels, a gleaming wall of white stone, polished brass, black awnings, and glass doors tall enough to make anyone entering feel important. Valets moved quickly beneath the canopy. Bellmen pushed gold luggage carts. Men in suits passed in and out carrying phones, briefcases, and expressions suggesting that the world existed mainly to accommodate their schedules.
Riley had never been impressed by buildings designed to intimidate people.
She worked six days a week in steel-toed boots.
Marble floors did not scare her.
Neither did expensive cars.
Especially badly parked ones.
She nodded toward the enormous red-and-white sign directly behind the black Italian sports car now sitting on her flatbed.
LOADING ZONE.
NO PARKING.
TOW-AWAY ZONE.
“I can read,” the tall security man said.
“Great,” Riley replied. “That saves us time.”
The second suited man looked down.
His mouth twitched.
The first man noticed.
He did not look amused.
“The owner is coming.”
“Perfect. He can meet his car at Morgan Towing.”
Something changed in the men’s faces.
Riley caught it instantly.
She had spent eleven years dealing with angry motorists. She knew every stage of the process.
Disbelief.
Outrage.
Threats.
Sudden expertise in municipal law.
Promises to have her fired from a company she happened to own.
These men had skipped every stage.
They were simply waiting.
Then the revolving doors of the Mercer Grand turned.
A man stepped outside.
Nobody announced him.
Nobody needed to.
People moved.
Not dramatically. Not even consciously.
They simply created space.
Riley straightened beside the flatbed.
He was tall, at least six-three, with broad shoulders under a fitted black button-down shirt. The sleeves had been rolled to his forearms, revealing dark ink curling around one wrist. His hair was nearly black and slightly unruly, his jaw covered by the shadow of a short beard.
But it was the way he walked that caught Riley’s attention.
He did not hurry.
The entire sidewalk seemed to move around him instead.
Riley knew the surname Duca.
Everybody in Chicago did.
Duca restaurants.
Duca properties.
Duca hotels.
And then there were the stories people repeated more quietly.
Stories about Matteo Duca solving problems before lawyers got involved.
Stories about contracts that mysteriously disappeared.
Stories about men who cheated the Duca family once and never tried it twice.
Riley had no idea which stories were true.
She also did not care.
A tow authorization was a tow authorization.
Matteo stopped beside the truck.
His eyes moved from the sports car to Riley.
“You’re towing my car.”
“Yes.”
“Put it down.”
Riley looked at him.
Then she looked at the sign.
Then back at him.
“No.”
Silence dropped over the sidewalk.
One valet suddenly became extremely interested in adjusting a luggage cart.
The security men stopped moving.
Even the city noise seemed farther away.
Matteo’s expression barely changed.
“You said no.”
“I did.”
“Do you know whose car that is?”
Riley glanced over her shoulder.
“A badly parked person’s.”
The second security guard turned his head.
He was absolutely hiding a smile now.
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
For one brief second, Riley wondered whether she had finally discovered the limit of her own stubbornness.
Then the corner of Matteo Duca’s mouth moved.
Barely.
But it moved.
“I was inside twelve minutes.”
“Twenty-six.”
His eyes narrowed.
Riley pulled the authorization sheet from the clipboard clipped beside the truck controls.
“Complaint logged at 2:14. I arrived at 2:28. Photographs taken. Wheels lifted at 2:40.”
She held the sheet toward him.
“You want the timestamps?”
Matteo studied her.
Not the paper.
Her.
Riley knew that look too.
Most men who gave it to her were trying to decide whether they could intimidate her.
She had grown up with a father who once rebuilt a transmission during a snowstorm because a customer needed to reach his daughter’s wedding.
She had spent her teenage years changing tires beside highways while truckers blasted past at seventy miles per hour.
A wealthy man in a black shirt was not going to destroy her nervous system.
“How much to put it down?” Matteo asked.
“Release fee gets paid at the yard.”
“I asked how much to put it down now.”
“That isn’t how this works.”
“Everything works somehow.”
Riley folded her arms.
“That sentence probably works better for you than it does for most people.”
There it was again.
That almost-smile.
A delivery van turned onto the block.
The driver slowed.
Matteo’s car was still partially obstructing the loading area.
Unable to pull in, the van continued down the street.
Riley pointed after it.
“Exhibit A.”
Matteo watched the van disappear.
Then he checked his watch.
For the first time, something resembling urgency appeared in his face.
“I have to be across town in thirty-five minutes.”
“Then today is an excellent day to discover public transportation.”
One of the security men coughed.
Riley was fairly certain he had nearly swallowed a laugh.
Matteo looked toward the intersection.
Construction had reduced traffic to almost nothing.
One of his vehicles appeared trapped several blocks away.
Riley climbed into the truck.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Duca.”
She closed the door.
Started the engine.
Through the side mirror, she saw Matteo begin walking away.
Excellent.
Problem solved.
Then he stopped.
Turned around.
And started walking toward her passenger door.
Riley frowned.
He opened it.
Climbed inside.
Closed it behind him.
Then calmly fastened his seat belt.
Riley stared at him.
Matteo looked through the windshield.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why ask?”
“This is a commercial tow truck.”
“I noticed.”
“You cannot just get in.”
He turned his head toward her.
“I just did.”
Riley stared at him for three full seconds.
Then pointed toward the door.
“Out.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows rose.
That tiny almost-smile appeared again.
Apparently Matteo Duca enjoyed the word considerably more when he was the one using it.
“What exactly is your plan?” she demanded.
“My meeting is west.”
“So?”
“Your yard is west.”
“That does not make this Uber.”
“I’m aware.”
“Good, because our review section is terrible.”
For the first time, Matteo actually smiled.
It transformed his face.
The intimidating stranger disappeared for half a second, replaced by a man who looked younger, warmer, almost ordinary.
Riley disliked how much she noticed.
“Mr. Duca—”
“Matteo.”
“No.”
“That’s my name.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then we’re making progress.”
Riley tightened her hands around the steering wheel.
“You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
“You want to ride in the tow truck while I impound your own car?”
“Yes.”
“That may be the strangest thing a customer has ever asked me, and I once transported a hearse containing forty-seven inflatable flamingos.”
Matteo paused.
“I’m going to need that story.”
“You’re not staying long enough.”
She pulled away from the curb.
The three security men remained on the sidewalk.
For the first twenty seconds, neither Riley nor Matteo spoke.
Chicago moved around them.
Buses hissed at stops.
Pedestrians streamed across intersections.
The sports car behind them glittered obscenely in Riley’s mirrors.
Matteo’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at it.
Ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Ignored again.
Riley looked sideways.
“Your people seem concerned.”
“They’re always concerned.”
“Occupational hazard?”
“Something like that.”
The phone buzzed a third time.
Riley sighed.
“If they think I kidnapped you, I want it documented that you climbed in voluntarily.”
“They know.”
“You sure?”
“My head of security watched me do it.”
“The one who looked like he wanted to arrest me?”
“Adrian always looks like that.”
“The other one was laughing.”
“That was Luca.”
“I like Luca better.”
“I’ll inform him.”
“Please don’t.”
Matteo looked through the windshield.
“You always talk this much?”
“You always illegally enter women’s trucks?”
“Only on Tuesdays.”
Riley glanced at the dashboard clock.
“It’s Thursday.”
“Then this is serious.”
She laughed before she could stop herself.
Just one short sound.
Matteo turned toward her.
Riley immediately stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I didn’t think you were going to laugh.”
“I laugh.”
“You’ve spent the last ten minutes threatening my car.”
“I did not threaten it. I legally secured it.”
“You seem emotionally invested in the distinction.”
“I’m emotionally invested in people understanding parking signs.”
Matteo leaned back against the seat.
For several blocks, he said nothing.
And for reasons Riley could not explain, the silence was not uncomfortable.
Then his phone rang.
This time he answered.
“Yes.”
His tone changed.
Not louder.
Colder.
Riley kept her eyes on traffic.
“No,” Matteo said. “Do not sign anything until I arrive.”
A pause.
“Because the numbers are wrong.”
Another pause.
His gaze sharpened.
“I said wait.”
He ended the call.
Riley pretended not to have heard.
Matteo looked at her.
“I need a favor.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked yet.”
“I’m saving us both time.”
That almost-smile returned.
“Take the next right.”
“My yard is straight.”
“My meeting is eight blocks north.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“I’m not a taxi.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Painfully.”
Riley looked at the clock.
Then at the endless line of traffic ahead.
Then at the man sitting beside her.
Something about his call bothered her.
Not the coldness.
The urgency.
Whatever meeting he was trying to reach mattered.
And Riley had spent her entire life pretending she was harder than she actually was.
She exhaled.
“One detour.”
Matteo turned.
“Ten minutes.”
“Eight.”
“Twelve.”
“Ten.”
“Fine.”
Riley turned north.
Matteo studied her.
“You negotiate like a hostage specialist.”
“I negotiate with insurance adjusters. They’re worse.”
His phone buzzed again.
This time a message appeared across the screen.
Riley did not mean to read it.
She only caught four words.
DON’T TRUST THE NUMBERS.
Then another message arrived.
And Matteo’s face changed.
The humor vanished.
So did the irritation.
What remained was something Riley had not seen before.
Concern.
Real concern.
He typed a quick response.
Then looked through the windshield.
“Can this thing go any faster?”
Riley stared at him.
“You’re asking the woman towing your $300,000 car to speed?”
“Fair point.”
She continued north.
Neither noticed the dark sedan that turned behind them.
Neither saw the man in the passenger seat raise a phone and photograph Riley’s tow truck.
And neither knew that before sunset, somebody would know exactly who Riley Morgan was.
May you like
Or that towing Matteo Duca’s car had just connected her to a secret that powerful people had spent twenty years trying to keep buried.
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