Chapter 3 - The Queen’s Gambit
Twelve hours later, Hannah found herself standing inside the high-walled compound of the Moretti estate in Brookline.
The estate was a masterpiece of old-world Italian architecture—stone arcades, manicured boxwood hedges, and wrought-iron gates that looked capable of stopping an armored tank. But inside the glass-enclosed conservatory at the back of the mansion, the atmosphere was deceptively peaceful.
Eleanor Moretti sat in a wicker armchair, surrounded by blooming orchids and lemon trees, sipping Earl Grey tea from porcelain so thin it was practically translucent.
Dominic stood near the french doors, holding a glass of scotch, watching Hannah walk in escorted by Marco.
"Sit down, child," Eleanor said, gesturing to the marble table across from her. "You look like you haven't slept."
"I haven't," Hannah said honestly, refusing the offered tea. She looked at Dominic, then back at Eleanor. "Your son knows how to ruin a person's night."
"Dominic is thorough," Eleanor replied smoothly. "He inherits that from his father. My late husband, God rest his soul, used to audit the dry cleaner's receipts just to make sure they weren't spying for the federal grand jury. But let's talk about you, Hannah. Or should I say, Dr. Brooks?"
Hannah closed her eyes for a brief second. "I'm not a doctor anymore, Mrs. Moretti. The State Medical Board saw to that when Frank Scalisi's lawyers produced 'evidence' that my brother Leo was stealing oxycodone from the pediatric ward. Leo was twenty-one. He was a pharmacy technician. He didn't even have the keys to the heavy vault. But Scalisi needed a fall guy to cover his nephew's habit, and my family didn't have the money to fight a mob lawyer."
"And Leo?" Eleanor asked softly.
"Leo died in state prison three years ago," Hannah said, her voice cracking for the first time, though no tears fell. "A 'fight' in the cafeteria. Nobody was charged."
Dominic took a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes fixed on Hannah’s face. "And you stayed in Boston."
"Because Scalisi owns the judge who handled Leo's trial," Hannah said, turning her fierce, dark gaze onto Dominic. "Judge Richard Vance. Vance takes his cut through a shell corporation that owns three warehouses along the South Boston waterfront. I’ve been saving every dollar, collecting every shift schedule, watching every politician who eats at L’Hermitage. I was waiting until Vance made a mistake."
"Vance doesn't make mistakes," Dominic noted coldly. "He’s been on Scalisi’s payroll for fifteen years. He’s careful, he’s paranoid, and he’s protected by twelve armed guards every time he leaves his house."
"He makes mistakes when he gets greedy," Hannah countered. "He’s an alcoholic. Every Thursday night, he goes to a private gambling den behind the fish market on Pier 4. He leaves his guards at the door because he doesn't want them seeing how much he loses."
Eleanor set her teacup down with a sharp clink. She looked up at her son. "Dominic."
"Ma?"
"Did you know about Vance's Thursday gambling habit?"
Dominic hesitated. "We knew he gambled, Ma. We didn't know he went alone."
Eleanor turned back to Hannah, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her aristocratic features. "Five years of wiping tables, listening to whispers, and connecting dots. You didn't just survive, Hannah. You built an intelligence network out of tips and leftover breadsticks."
"I used what I had," Hannah said quietly.
"And now," Eleanor said, leaning forward, her emerald ring catching the bright afternoon sunlight, "you have us."
Hannah frowned. "I didn't come here to ask for a hit on Judge Vance, Mrs. Moretti. I’m not a killer."
"Of course you're not," Eleanor scoffed gracefully. "Killing Vance makes him a martyr for Scalisi. Killing Vance brings the FBI to Hanover Street. We don't kill men like Vance, Hannah. We ruin them. We take their licenses, their reputations, their money, and their freedom—just like they took yours."
Dominic stepped away from the french doors, walking over to stand directly behind his mother's chair. His massive frame seemed to anchor the entire room. "My mother is right. Scalisi is planning a move on our shipping lanes at the port next week. He thinks I’m weak because I turned our logistics division legitimate. He thinks because my father is dead, the Morettis are soft."
Dominic looked directly into Hannah’s eyes, his expression dark, intense, and terrifyingly focused.
"Help us take down Vance and cut off Scalisi’s judicial protection," Dominic proposed, his voice dropping into a velvet rumble. "In exchange, I will personally clear your brother's name in the state public record, return your medical license through the governor’s oversight committee, and ensure Frank Scalisi spends the rest of his miserable life in a maximum-security cell."
Hannah felt a shiver run down her spine. The deal was breathtaking in its scope, dangerous in its execution, and completely insane.
"And what if I say no?" Hannah asked quietly. "What if I just go back to my shifts at L’Hermitage?"
May you like
Eleanor smiled—a gentle, almost maternal expression that sent cold dread straight to Hannah’s core.
"You won't say no, Hannah," Eleanor said softly. "Because you know as well as I do... a woman like you wasn't born to carry trays. You were born to sit at the head of the table."
