Chapter 6 - The Storm Before the Dawn
The rain had turned into a relentless downpour by the time I let myself into my tiny, third-floor apartment in Queens.
The air inside smelled faintly of radiator heat and old tea. I dropped my black waitress vest onto the sagging sofa, walked straight to the small kitchen sink, and splashed cold water over my face. Staring into the cracked mirror above the sink, I tried to recognize the girl looking back.
Was I still Emma Russell, the exhausted waitress who counted pennies to buy groceries? Or was I the woman who had brought a Manhattan ballroom to its knees with Mozart?
My phone buzzed violently on the counter.
I picked it up. My screen was already lit up with thirty missed calls from unknown numbers, text messages from local news outlets, and links to Instagram videos titled: “MYSTERY WAITRESS DESTROYS MAFIA BOSS AT VETRO NERO!”
One video had already garnered over half a million views. The comments were a chaotic hurricane of speculation, awe, and fear.
“Isn't that Alexander Moretti? Who is that girl? She's dead meat.”
“Bro, she hit that high F cleaner than Natalie Dessay! Get her on Broadway!”
“Moretti looked like he saw a ghost. She’s either going to be his queen or swim with the fishes.”
My hands trembled as I threw the phone onto the sofa. Alexander hadn't been exaggerating. The world was already closing in.
Suddenly, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed from my front door.
My blood ran cold. It was 2:00 AM. Reporters? Creditors? Or worse—rivals of Moretti looking to exploit his sudden public attachment to a nobody waitress?
I crept quietly toward the door, my fingers wrapping around the handle of a heavy iron skillet I kept by the counter. I peered through the peephole.
Standing in the dimly lit hallway wasn't a reporter or an assassin. It was a tall, impeccably dressed man in a dark trench coat, holding a heavy leather briefcase. Behind him stood two massive, silent security guards clad in black suits.
Recognizing one of Moretti’s inner-circle men, I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open just a crack.
“Miss Russell,” the man said respectfully, keeping his hands visible. “Mr. Moretti sent me. He thought you might need a secure relocation before the morning press descends on your building.”
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I stared at him, then down the hallway. The realization washed over me with crystal clarity: there was no going back to normal. The moment I sang that first note at Vetro Nero, my old life ended.
“Tell him,” I said, my voice steady and clear, “that I accept his terms. But I’m packing my own bags.”
