One digit was wrong.
I hadn’t texted Aunt Lisa.
Panicking, I typed, “I’m sorry. Wrong number. Please ignore it.”
The reply came almost immediately.
“Wait.”
I froze.
Another message appeared.
“Don’t apologize. Is your brother hungry right now?”
I stared at those words, suddenly frightened that I had told a complete stranger too much.
What I couldn’t possibly know was that the stranger reading my message wasn’t simply wealthy.
His name was Lorenzo Moretti.
He was one of the most feared mafia bosses in Detroit, a man whose name could silence a crowded room and whose black cars were recognized long before anyone saw his face.
Yet that afternoon, Lorenzo wasn’t looking at an enemy’s name.
He was staring at a message from a twelve-year-old girl asking for twenty dollars to buy milk for her baby brother.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
