Chapter 3 - THE ECHO OF THE MORNING
Dora woke up at 5:15 AM out of pure muscle memory.
For eleven years, her internal clock had been conditioned by alarm bells, bus schedules, and the constant fear of being docked fifteen minutes’ pay for a late check-in.
She sat up instantly in the vast king-sized bed, her lungs gasping for air before her brain remembered where she was.
The west wing suite was larger than her entire apartment in South Boston. The bed was draped in Egyptian cotton sheets that felt like silk against her skin. A fire was still dying softly in the bedroom fireplace, casting warm orange embers across a polished oak floor.
On a chair near the wardrobe sat a stack of folded clothes: a cream cashmere sweater, tailored dark trousers, a fresh wool coat, and a pair of soft leather boots—all in her exact size.
Beside the clothes sat a brand-new iPhone, its screen lit up with a single text message on the lock screen:
FROM: Unknown
MSG: Your Civic has been towed from the hotel lot to my garage. Your laundry is clean. Your landlord’s back rent has been paid in full for the next two years. Breakfast is at six.
Dora stared at the phone screen, her heart beating a fast, confused rhythm against her ribs.
She stood up, walked to the tall French doors, and pulled open the velvet curtains.
Below her, the morning fog rolled over the rocky cliffs of Nahant, the Atlantic Ocean crashing wildly against dark jagged rocks far below.
She dressed quickly in the clothes provided. The cashmere was impossibly soft, warming her instantly. When she pulled on the leather boots, she realized they were the first shoes she had worn in five years that didn't pinch her arches.
She left the suite and walked down the grand staircase, guided by the scent of freshly brewed coffee and fried bacon.
In the dining room, a long mahogany table was set for two.
Victor sat at the head of the table, wearing a crisp dark grey suit, reading a copy of the Boston Globe. A pair of reading glasses rested on his nose, giving him an dangerously intelligent, aristocratic look.
Beside his coffee cup lay three tabloid newspapers and a stack of printed intelligence reports.
“Good morning, Dora,” Victor said without looking up from his paper. “Did you sleep?”
“No,” Dora said, walking over to the table and pulling out a chair opposite him. “I spent three hours waiting for the police to bust down the door.”
Victor lowered the paper, taking off his glasses. He looked at her, his eyes lingering on the cream cashmere sweater.
“Nobody busts down my doors,” he said smoothly.
He slid the front page of the Boston Herald across the table toward her.
Dora looked down at the bold black headline taking up half the page:
THE WAITRESS AND THE KING: VICTOR ROMANO INTERRUPTS ASTER GALA TO RESCUE DISGRACED SERVER
Subhead: Trent Family Legacy under scrutiny as rumors of extortion and underworld retaliation sweep Back Bay.
Below the text was a high-resolution photograph taken from the ballroom balcony—a clear, stark image of Victor Romano crouched on one knee on the cold marble, kissing Dora’s bleeding hand while Jessica Trent stood in the background, her face pale with horror.
Dora felt the air leave her lungs.
“This is everywhere?” she whispered.
“It was on the AP wire by three this morning,” Victor said, taking a sip of black coffee. “Jessica’s father called my office four times before dawn, offering a public apology and a five-million-dollar donation to my mother’s hospital foundation if I don't pull his commercial zoning permits.”
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Dora stared at the photo. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him his daughter had until noon to pack her bags and leave Massachusetts,” Victor said coldly. “Or I would buy his bank’s debt and foreclose on his house by Friday.”
