Everything about the situation felt wrong.

But Moretti already knew my full name from payroll.

So I told him.

Anthony typed it into his phone.

Less than a minute later, his expression changed.

“Boss.”

“Say it.”

“The building belongs to a holding company controlled by Victor Russo.”

My stomach dropped.

Moretti looked at me.

“You said you had an overdue rent notice.”

I nodded.

“How overdue?”

“Six weeks.”

“How much?”

“That isn't your business.”

“Grace.”

“Don't.”

I was tired of being examined like a problem somebody could solve with a check.

“I work. I pay what I can. Chloe's father disappeared three years ago. I don't get child support. I don't have family in Massachusetts. I'm handling it.”

Moretti's expression didn't change.

“Are you?”

The question hurt.

I stepped toward him.

“My daughter is fed.”

His eyes flicked toward the empty bowl downstairs.

I felt my face burn.

“Most days.”

His voice softened.

“That isn't an accusation.”

“It feels like one.”

“No. It's a question.”

“What?”

“Why didn't you tell the manager you needed more shifts?”

“I did.”

Moretti looked at Anthony.

Anthony looked away.

That told me something.

“What?”

Moretti repeated the question.

“Anthony. What?”

“The manager cut her hours two months ago.”

Moretti stared at him.

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

“Find out.”

I crossed my arms.

“You don't need to investigate my life.”

“Someone connected to Russo owns your apartment, and someone in my restaurant cut your hours while you're facing eviction.”

“Those things could be unrelated.”

“They could.”

“But you don't believe that.”

“No.”

His phone rang.

He answered.

“What?”

I watched his expression harden.

“Where?”

Then he looked directly at me.

“When?”

He ended the call.

“Grace, did you leave anything valuable at your apartment?”

I stared at him.

“What happened?”

“Answer me.”

“Nothing valuable. Why?”

“There's been a fire.”

For a moment, I didn't understand.

Then Chloe spoke.

“Our house?”

I couldn't breathe.

“No.”

Moretti moved toward me.

“Fire department's there. It's under control.”

“Our apartment?”

“I don't know yet.”

“My things—”

“Grace.”

“Chloe's Christmas presents.”

It was stupid.

There were only two.

A coloring set and a secondhand doll I'd found online.

But they were hers.

I grabbed my coat.

“I'm going.”

“No.”

“Get out of my way.”

“The street isn't secure.”

“I don't care.”

“I do.”

I shoved him.

It didn't move him an inch.

“That's my home!”

“I know.”

“No, you don't!”

My voice broke.

“You have buildings. Restaurants. Cars. Men who follow you around. If you lose something, you replace it.”

His expression became still.

“I can't.”

“What?”

He glanced at Chloe.

Then I remembered.

His daughter.

The anger left me instantly.

Moretti took a slow breath.

“I know exactly what it means to lose something money cannot replace.”

Nobody spoke.

Then Chloe walked over.

“Mommy.”

I knelt.

She hugged me.

“Leo is here.”

I held her.

“Yes.”

“And you're here.”

“Yes.”

“So we have the important stuff.”

I closed my eyes.

My six-year-old had just said what I couldn't.

Moretti turned away.

“Anthony.”

“Yes?”

“Get the car.”

“Where are we going?”

Moretti looked at me.

“To see what's left.”

Twenty minutes later, we reached my street.

Fire trucks filled the block.

Smoke drifted from the third-floor windows.

My apartment.

I stepped out of the car.

A firefighter stopped me.

“You live here?”

“Third floor. Apartment 3B.”

His face told me everything.

“I'm sorry.”

My knees nearly gave out.

Moretti caught my arm.

Then a man in a gray overcoat approached.

I recognized him.

My property manager.

“Ms. Bennett.”

“Mr. Carver.”

His eyes shifted toward Moretti.

His face went pale.

“Mr. Moretti.”

James said nothing.

Carver swallowed.

“Terrible accident.”

Moretti looked toward the building.

“Accident?”

“Electrical, probably.”

A firefighter behind him frowned.

“Actually, sir, we found signs of an accelerant near the rear stairwell.”

Silence.

Carver's face changed.

Moretti saw it.

So did I.

James stepped closer to him.

“That's interesting.”

Carver backed away.

“I don't know anything about that.”

Moretti's voice stayed calm.

“I didn't say you did.”

Then Anthony came running from the building holding something.

A red folder.

“Boss.”

Inside were documents.

Tenant records.

Eviction schedules.

And beside my name was a handwritten note:

Pressure her. She works for Moretti.

I looked up.

James Moretti was no longer looking at me.

He was looking at Carver.

And Carver started running.