Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Shadows
Three weeks passed in a blur of slow recovery and gilded isolation.
My wounds began to knit together, the jagged red cuts across my shoulder and forearm fading into pale pink scars, though the deep incision in my side still throbbed with a dull ache whenever the weather turned damp.
Luca became my shadow. Every afternoon after his private tutoring, he would burst into my room with a stack of illustrated adventure books, curling up beside me on the chaise lounge while I read to him. He was starved for warmth. In this fortress of stone and armed men, he had lived like a little prince in an ivory tower, surrounded by bodyguards who saluted him but never played tag.
"Can we go to the greenhouse?" Luca asked one rainy Tuesday, tugging on my sleeve. "The big orange koi fish are hungry."
"Ask Marco first," I told him, smoothing down his unruly hair.
Marco, who stood stationed outside my door like an immovable piece of furniture, checked his watch, spoke briefly into his collar mic, and nodded. "The courtyard and conservatory are clear, Miss Carter. The boss is working in the library on the ground floor."
The conservatory was a soaring glass cathedral filled with tropical ferns, blooming orchids, and a stone basin filled with swirling orange and gold koi. Luca ran ahead, tossing pellets of fish food into the churning water with joyful shouts.
I walked slowly along the flagstone path, breathing in the damp, earth-rich air.
As I rounded a cluster of giant palms, I heard voices coming from the adjoining library through an open pair of French doors.
"Sal Moretti is getting desperate, Damian," Marco’s voice was tense, clipped. "He lost the shipping terminal at Navy Pier yesterday. Your men seized three of his containers. He knows he’s bleeding out financially. His lieutenants are whispering about retaliation."
"Let them whisper," Damian’s voice was cold, icy, and flat. "Sal has forty-eight hours to liquidate his assets and leave Chicago permanently. If he sets foot north of Interstate 80 after Thursday midnight, put a bullet in his head and leave him for the crows."
"And the girl?" Marco asked. "Emma?"
I froze behind the broad leaves of a ficus tree, my heart stuttering.
"What about her?" Damian asked.
"She’s recovered enough to travel. We could set her up in London, or Zurich. Change her identity, give her the trust fund, and let her live in peace. Keeping her here... it makes her a target, Damian. And it makes people talk. They think she’s your mistress."
A heavy silence followed. I held my breath, the blood roaring in my ears.
"She is not leaving," Damian said. The finality in his tone left no room for debate.
"Boss—"
"She took a blade for my son, Marco. She bled on the marble while my own lieutenants stood frozen. She stays under my roof, where I can see her, where I can protect her. And if Sal Moretti or anyone else thinks she is a weakness..."
Damian’s footsteps crossed the hardwood floor, stopping near the threshold of the conservatory.
"...I will remind them why they fear my name."
I took a step backward, terrified of being caught eavesdropping, but my heel caught the edge of a terracotta planter. The pot scraped against the stone with a sharp screech.
Instantly, Damian appeared in the doorway.
His eyes locked onto mine. For a fraction of a second, surprise flashed across his sharp features, followed by a dark, possessive intensity that rooted me to the spot.
May you like
"Emma," he said.
***
