Chapter 3 - The Price of Blood
The word hung in the room like lead: *Targeting.*
I looked from Damian down to Luca, who had returned to arranging his toy dinosaurs along the foot of the bed, blissfully unaware of the shadow falling across the room.
"Who would want to hurt a six-year-old child?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Damian’s jaw set hard. "People who cannot reach me directly. Men who think that making me bleed through my son will force me to concede territory, shipping lanes, and political leverage."
He rose from his chair and walked toward the door. He turned the handle, opened it an inch, and spoke: "Marco."
The door swung fully open, and the broad-shouldered man in the charcoal suit stepped inside. His face was weathered, scarred across the bridge of his nose, and his dark eyes swept the room methodically before landing on Damian.
"What do we have?" Damian asked.
Marco glanced briefly at me, then at Luca, hesitating.
"Luca, go with Nurse Elena in the sitting room," Damian commanded gently. "Pick out three cartoons. I will join you in ten minutes."
The boy didn't argue. He picked up his Triceratops, nodded obediently, and walked out the door, where a soft-spoken nurse in navy scrubs took his hand.
Once the door clicked shut, Marco pulled a thick tablet from his coat.
"The man on the balcony was Thomas Vance," Marco reported. "Ex-military, dishonorably discharged four years ago. Been working freelance for the Moretti family out of South Chicago for the past six months."
Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Where is he?"
"At the bottom of an intake canal near the Calumet River," Marco said without an ounce of inflection. "He didn't want to talk at first. But he gave up the handler before he stopped breathing. It was Sal Moretti who authorized the contract. They knew you were bringing Luca to Bellamy House for the cultural foundation gala. They wanted to take your heir in front of your peers."
A wave of nausea washed over me. I pressed a hand to my bandage, feeling the fierce, rhythmic thumping of my pulse underneath the gauze.
"Sal Moretti," Damian repeated. The name sounded like ash in his mouth. "Sal thinks that because his father built the docks thirty years ago, he has the right to touch my family."
"Sir," Marco continued, looking pointedly at me. "The catering agency had Emma’s background filed on an unsecured server. Vance had an accomplice waiting in the service alley who pulled the roster. They know Emma Carter took the hit. Sal believes she is one of our deep-cover operatives."
I let out a breathless, panicked laugh. "An operative? I make fourteen dollars an hour pouring sparkling wine and scraping burnt crostini off silver platters! I majored in art history!"
"It doesn't matter what you were," Damian said, turning back toward me. His presence seemed to consume the space in the room. "In their eyes, you ruined a million-dollar contract and humiliated the Moretti syndicate. If you walk out of this hospital and return to your old life, they will snatch you off the street before you reach the subway."
The reality of it struck me like a physical blow.
My dingy studio apartment in Logan Square. My part-time shifts at the local library. The twenty-three dollars in my bank account. My entire, fragile, invisible life had evaporated the second that glass shattered across my back.
"So what am I supposed to do?" I asked, tears burning behind my eyelids. "Spend the rest of my life hiding in this hospital?"
"No," Damian said. He walked back to my bedside and leaned in, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the hair on my arms stand up. "You will not hide. You will come home with me."
"Home?"
"To the estate in Lake Forest," Damian said. "It has ten-foot stone walls, armed perimeter security, and round-the-clock surveillance. You will have your own wing, your own staff, and the finest physical therapy in the Midwest. Luca trusts you. More than that, I can protect you there."
"I don't know you," I whispered, though every instinct inside me shouted that this man was the only thing standing between me and a shallow grave.
May you like
"You know that I keep my promises," Damian replied, reaching out to gently adjust the blanket over my shoulders, his rough fingertips briefly grazing the skin of my collarbone. "I told you that you would never worry about money again. I intend to ensure you never have to worry about your safety, either. Rest now, Emma. Tomorrow, we leave."
***
