Chapter 1 - The New Blueprint
The transition from a life of violence to one of quiet normalcy was not a seamless highway; it was a gravel path full of jagged rocks. For Dawson Moretti, the silence of the mornings was the hardest part to get used to. For years, his ears had been tuned to the heavy, threatening static of police scanners, the desperate pleas of men begging for their lives, and the metallic clatter of shovel blades hitting frozen Chicago earth.
Now, the loudest sound in his life was the gentle hum of the refrigerator in the small, sunlit apartment on Tenth Street, and the soft, rhythmic breathing of Sienna sleeping beside him.
She lay tangled in the white sheets, her dark brown hair splayed across the pillow like spilled ink. The morning sun crept through the cheap blinds, casting zebra stripes of light across her bare shoulders and the thin, pale scars on her wrists. Dawson sat on the edge of the bed, his massive frame hunched forward, his hands resting on his knees. His knuckles, once perpetually bruised and split, were finally healing, the skin closing over the old violence.
He looked down at his hands. They felt useless when they weren't holding a weapon or a tool of destruction.
"You're thinking too loud again," Sienna’s voice was a soft, gravelly murmur. She didn't open her eyes, but her hand reached out from beneath the duvet, her fingers lightly tracing the lower edge of his spine.
Dawson let out a slow breath, turning his head to look at her. "Just wondering how long a man can sit in a clean room before he starts looking for dirt to clean up."
Sienna opened her eyes, her hazel gaze clear and sharp even in the early morning light. She sat up, letting the sheet fall around her waist, and crawled over to him, resting her chin on his broad shoulder. "You don't need to look for dirt, Dawson. We have a logistics firm to run. Well, technically, Rocco is running the day-to-day, but we have to keep him honest."
"Rocco is as honest as a three-dollar bill, Sienna," Dawson grunted, though a faint, rare smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "But he’s loyal to the old man. And since the old man is officially retired in Florida, Rocco will keep the trucks moving."
"And what about us?" she asked softly, her lips brushing against the black ink of his throat tattoo—the heavy, dark collar that marked his past. "What does Dawson Moretti do when he’s not the family's shadow?"
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"He listens to his boss," Dawson murmured, turning his head to capture her lips in a slow, lingering kiss.
But as the kiss ended, Dawson’s eyes drifted to the window. Down on the street, parked across from their building, was a dark, nondescript sedan with tinted windows. It had been there for three days. Dawson didn't say anything to Sienna. He didn't want to bring the cold wind of suspicion back into her warm, fragile world. But the instinct that had kept him alive for thirty-two years whispered a single, chilling word: Watcher.
