Dante Vitelli was dangerous. His family name moved through conversations in whispers. Men like him did not simply offer help. There were always strings, even if they were made of silk.
But Sophia was not Dante.
And you needed work.
You called the number.
Sophia answered through a video relay service.
When her face appeared on your phone, she looked delighted.
“Elena! Did the rude waiter fire you?”
You blinked.
“How did you know?”
“I am old, not stupid.”
Despite everything, you laughed.
Her expression softened.
“You need work?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I need an interpreter.”
Your heart stopped.
“For what?”
“For me. Appointments, meetings, family events. My son’s signing is terrible, and everyone around him fears him too much to tell him.”
You smiled.
“I noticed.”
“I will pay properly.”
“Sophia, I’m not certified yet.”
“You sign better than certified people who stare at my son instead of listening to me.”
That sentence decided it.
Two days later, you met Sophia at her Chicago apartment, a penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan. It was elegant but warm, filled with books, old photographs, Sicilian ceramics, and plants that seemed lovingly overwatered.
Dante was there.
Of course he was.
He stood near the windows, speaking on the phone in Italian. When he saw you, he ended the call.
“Elena.”
“Dante.”
His eyes moved over your face.
“You were fired.”
You looked at Sophia.
She signed, “I told him.”
Traitor.
Sophia grinned.
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“Marco will be dealt with.”
“No,” you said immediately.
His gaze snapped back to you.
“No?”
“I don’t need revenge over a restaurant job.”
“People like Marco survive because everyone calls accountability revenge.”
You hated how good that sounded.
Still, you shook your head.
“I don’t want my name involved.”
He studied you.
“Then it won’t be.”
That did not reassure you as much as it should have.
Sophia clapped her hands once.
“Enough. I am hiring her, not marrying her into a vendetta.”
Dante’s eyes flicked to your hands.
“What did she say?”
You smiled sweetly.
“She said she is very excited to work with me.”
Sophia laughed silently.
Dante looked suspicious.
Good.
Working for Sophia was nothing like working at Bissimo.
She paid you more for one afternoon than the restaurant paid for three shifts. She insisted you eat lunch with her. She asked about your classes, your childhood, your goals. She corrected your Italian signs when they differed from ASL and taught you Sicilian expressions that made Dante groan when you repeated them.
For the first time in years, work did not make you feel invisible.
It made you feel useful.
But working for Sophia also meant entering Dante’s world.
And Dante’s world was not safe.
Men arrived at odd hours. They spoke in low voices and stopped when you entered. Bodyguards remained near doors. Cars idled outside. Names appeared in conversations that you later saw in news articles connected to shipping disputes, union investigations, and federal indictments.
You told yourself you were there for Sophia.
Not Dante.
Never Dante.
