I had convinced myself that my maid was stealing from me, so I confronted her after work and pulled the canvas bag from her trembling hands. But when everything inside scattered across my marble floor, I realized that the poorest woman in my house had been hiding something that suddenly made every rule I had lived by feel shameful.
My name is Zo Rossi.
In Chicago, that name opens doors most people don’t even realize are there.
It also makes people quiet.
I paid everyone on my estate well. Security guards, drivers, gardeners, cleaners. Every evening at seven, my chef prepared a dinner for them that most people couldn’t afford even for a special occasion.
Steak. Risotto. Lobster. Wine.
I had one rule.
If you worked for me, you ate well.
