The color vanished from Beatrice Vane’s face before Lorenzo Moretti had said a single word.
That was the first thing Sophie noticed.
The second was the silence.
Three hundred guests had been whispering, drinking, laughing, pretending not to stare.
Now the ballroom seemed to have lost its air.
Even Sophie’s supervisor, who had been marching toward her with fury in his eyes, stopped halfway across the marble floor.
Lorenzo descended the final stair without hurrying.
Silas followed several paces behind him.
Sophie did not know exactly who Lorenzo was.
She had seen his face earlier among the VIP guests, always surrounded by people who leaned closer when he spoke.
She knew he was wealthy.
Important.
Possibly the kind of man who never heard the word no.
But Beatrice knew him.
So did everyone else.
“Mr.
Moretti,” Beatrice said, forcing a laugh.
“What an unfortunate little scene.”
Lorenzo walked past her.
He went directly to Isabella.
The transformation in him was so complete that Sophie wondered for a moment whether she had misunderstood the room’s fear.
The cold man from the balcony crouched in front of the trembling elderly woman and gently adjusted the velvet wrap that had slipped from her shoulder.
“Mama.”
Isabella stared at him.
For one terrible second, there was no recognition.
Then she touched his cheek.
“Matteo?”
Something tightened behind Lorenzo’s eyes.
“No, Mama.
Lorenzo.”
She frowned as though searching through a hallway filled with locked doors.
“My little boy?”
“Yes.”
Her face softened.
“You got tall.”
A few nervous laughs escaped around the room and immediately died.
Lorenzo smiled only for her.
“So you keep telling me.”
Then Isabella held out the faded photograph Sophie had rescued from the floor.
“This girl saved your father.”
Lorenzo looked at Sophie for the first time.
Not glanced.
Looked.
Sophie suddenly became aware of everything about herself—the oversized uniform pinned at the waist, the ache in her shoes, the loose strand of hair stuck to her cheek, the fact that she was still holding the hand of a woman who apparently belonged to one of the most powerful families in Chicago.
“She picked up the photograph,” Isabella explained.
“The angry woman was going to step on him.”
Beatrice’s voice came quickly.
“That is absolutely not what happened.”
Lorenzo remained crouched beside his mother.
“I didn’t ask you.”
Four quiet words.
Beatrice stopped speaking.
Lorenzo turned back to Isabella.
“Did anyone hurt you?”
“No.”
She hesitated.
