Chapter 2 - The Contract of the Underworld
Samantha stared at the man standing before her, her mind struggling to process the words he had just spoken. "My terms?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper against the drumming of the rain outside.
"You need a husband by tomorrow morning at nine o'clock," Vincent said, as calmly as if he were discussing a commercial real estate lease. "You need a man with a clean record, a stable home, and enough financial influence to make your aunt's attorney look like an amateur. I have all of those things."
"You... you're joking," Samantha said, stepping backward until her spine pressed against the payphone wall. "Why would you do that? You don't even know me."
"I know you've worked here for fourteen months," Vincent replied, taking a step forward to close the distance she had made. "I know you never steal from the register, even when your sister's asthma medication is overdue. I know you walk three blocks in the snow because your car has a cracked block. And I know you've spent the last four years raising a child that isn't yours because you made a promise to a dying woman."
He tapped the ash of his cigar into a small tray on the counter.
"As for why I would do it," he continued, his voice dropping to a lower, darker register. "Let's call it a mutually beneficial transaction. I am thirty-four years old, Samantha. My family's board of directors—and certain other, more traditional associates—have been insisting for two years that a man in my position needs a wife. A wife provides stability. She softens a man's image in the public eye. But I have no interest in the women my associates select for me. They are ambitious, they are greedy, and they ask too many questions."
He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on the curve of her waist, the flush on her collarbone, and the fierce, protective light in her green eyes.
"You don't want my money," Vincent said. "You want your sister. You don't have time for social climbing, and you certainly don't have the desire to investigate my private affairs. We would be perfect partners."
"A partner," Samantha breathed, her heart hammering wildly. "You're talking about marriage. A real marriage?"
"On paper, it will be as real as the state of Illinois requires," Vincent said. "We will sign a prenuptial agreement that protects my assets, but it will also contain a clause that guarantees you a monthly stipend of fifty thousand dollars for your personal expenses and Lily's education. You will move into my home in Gold Coast. Lily will have her own wing, the best private tutors, and access to any medical care she requires. In exchange, you will attend three public dinners a year by my side, smile for the cameras when I ask you to, and live under my roof."
"Fifty thousand dollars..." Samantha's head spun. It was more than she earned in two years at the diner. "And what happens when your board is satisfied? What's the catch, Mr. Moretti?"
"The contract will be for three years," Vincent said. "After thirty-six months, if you wish to file for a quiet, uncontested divorce, you may do so. You will keep the custody of your sister, and I will settle a five-million-dollar trust on each of you. If you choose to stay, we will renegotiate. The only catch, Samantha, is loyalty."
He leaned in, his face inches from hers. The warmth of his breath stirred the loose auburn curls near her ear.
"If you marry me, you are a Moretti," he whispered, his voice holding a hard, dangerous edge. "That means you do not speak to the police without my attorneys present. You do not invite guests to my home without my permission. And you never, under any circumstances, betray my name. Do we understand each other?"
Samantha looked at his hand resting on the counter—broad, powerful, with a heavy gold signet ring bearing his family's crest. She thought of Aunt Agnes, with her cold, aristocratic smile, waiting in that Winnetka mansion to tear Lily away from the only home she had ever known. She thought of the gray, damp walls of her studio apartment, the late notices, and the terrifying silence of the family court room.
"If I say yes," Samantha said, her voice shaking but clear. "How do we do this? The court is in nine hours."
Vincent reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek, black smartphone. He tapped the screen once.
"Marco," Vincent said into the phone. "Wake up Judge Miller. Tell him to meet us at his private chambers in thirty minutes. Bring the standard marriage registry forms and a notary. Then call my legal team. I want a standard domestic prenuptial agreement drawn up with the Hayes addendum. We sign tonight."
May you like
He ended the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and looked at Samantha.
"Go get your coat, sweetheart," he said. "We're getting married."
