Chapter 3 - The Cold Horizon of Boston
The winter in Boston was different from the sharp, industrial wind of Chicago. Here, the air was heavy with the scent of the salt marsh and old brick, the snow falling in thick, wet blankets that muffled the sound of the traffic along the elevated highway.
In a small, drafty third-floor apartment overlooking Hanock Street, I sat on a faded velvet armchair, my legs tucked beneath an oversized grey wool sweater that Caleb—no, Dominic—had bought for me during our weekend in Michigan. I had to stop doing that. I had to stop calling him by the names he used when he was mine. He wasn't Caleb, the quiet investor who loved modern art and kissed my temples when I had a migraine. He was Dominic Russo. The King of Chicago. A man whose legacy was written in the obituaries of his rivals.
I placed both of my hands over the distinct, rounded swell of my belly. Just an hour ago, while the snow began to pile against the windowpane, I felt a sharp, rhythmic flutter beneath my ribs. A tiny kick.
"It's okay," I whispered into the empty room, my voice trembling as a tear escaped and slid into the collar of my sweater. "It's just you and me, little one. He's never going to find us. He has his diamonds, and his mafia princess, and his empire. He doesn't need a problem like us."
The words tasted like poison in my mouth. Even after three months of running, after changing my name to Emily Carter, after taking cash-in-hand shifts scrubbing floors at a bakery down the street, the memory of his voice still haunted me. Megan isn't a concern. Once the announcement goes public, she'll be taken care of quietly.
Did "taken care of quietly" mean a bullet in the back of my head? Or did it mean a payout to keep me silent while he consolidated his power with Isabella Moretti? I didn't know, and I couldn't risk finding out. The child inside me was six months away from being born into a world where their grandfathers would calculate their worth in shipping lanes and heroin distribution metrics.
A sudden, sharp knock at the door broke the silence.
I froze, my hand flying to my mouth, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn't get visitors. My landlord, an elderly man named Mr. Abernathy who lived on the first floor, always called before he came up to check the radiator.
"Who is it?" I called out, my voice thin, betraying the terror that lived just beneath my skin.
"Delivery for Emily Carter," a muffled voice replied from behind the heavy oak door. "Requires a signature for a medical package from the North End clinic."
I frowned, slowly rising from the chair, my hand instinctively supporting my lower back. The clinic? I had been there two days ago under the fake name, but I hadn't ordered any medication. Had they found something wrong with my bloodwork? Had they discovered the discrepancy in my insurance forms?
I unlocked the deadbolt, the iron click echoing through the narrow hallway, and cracked the door open, keeping the security chain engaged.
Standing in the dim, yellow light of the corridor wasn't a courier in a FedEx uniform. It was a tall man in a dark grey trench coat, his face obscured by a low-brimmed cap. But it wasn't his clothes that made my blood turn to pure ice. It was the heavy, silver ring on his right pinky finger—the crest of the Moretti family.
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"Hello, Megan," the man said, a cruel, yellow-toothed smile spreading across his face as he jammed his boot into the door crack. "The Don in New York sent us to make sure Dominic’s 'civilian' didn't accidentally complicate the weekend wedding."
Before I could scream, the man slammed his shoulder against the oak door, the iron security chain snapping out of the woodwork with a deafening crack.
