Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Sun
Morning arrived not with the harsh clatter of my old alarm clock and the rumble of the subway, but with the gentle sunlight filtering through sheer silk curtains and the rich aroma of freshly brewed espresso.
I shifted slowly, wincing as the stitches in my back pulled tight. The pain was duller today, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache.
The bedroom door opened quietly, and a tiny head peeked around the frame. Matteo. He was wearing blue pajamas with little yellow race cars on them, clutching his favorite toy car from the restaurant.
When he saw that my eyes were open, his face lit up. "Elena! You're awake!"
He scurried into the room, followed closely by a middle-aged woman in a grey housekeeper's uniform.
"Young master, slow down, she is injured!" the woman scolded gently, but Matteo was already standing at the edge of my bed, looking at me with big, wide brown eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, placing his toy car on the nightstand. "Papa said the doctor took all the bad glass out."
I couldn't help the small smile that broke across my face. Despite the madness of my situation, seeing this sweet little boy alive and unhurt made every bit of pain worth it.
"I'm going to be fine, Matteo," I said, my voice still a bit scratchy. "Are you okay? Did any glass touch you?"
He shook his head proudly. "No! Because you were like a superhero! You went poof over me!"
"Master Matteo," the housekeeper smiled, stepping forward with a silver tray laden with fresh fruit, poached eggs, pastries, and a pot of coffee. "Let Miss Elena rest while she eats her breakfast. I am Rosa, my dear. Anything you need, you just press the button beside the bed."
"Thank you, Rosa," I said, feeling overwhelmingly out of place. "I... I really don't need all this."
"The Don requested it personally," Rosa said firmly. "And no one argues with the Don."
After Rosa led a reluctant Matteo out so I could eat, I slowly pushed myself up into a sitting position. On a velvet armchair by the window sat three large black shopping boxes from Saks Fifth Avenue, filled with silk pajamas, soft cashmere sweaters, elegant dresses, and designer slippers—all tailored precisely to my size.
Dante Moretti moved with terrifying efficiency. He had reconstructed my entire life in less than twelve hours.
I managed to change into a soft cream-colored sweater and sweatpants, careful not to strain my back, and walked slowly to the balcony doors. The view outside was breath-taking—rolling green lawns, manicured hedges, a deep blue swimming pool, and beyond that, dense woods surrounded by high fences.
Down on the patio below, I saw Dante.
He was wearing a black dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, holding a secure satellite phone to his ear. Standing across from him were three men in suits, including Marco. Dante wasn't yelling, but his posture was tense, his face carved from ice. He waved a dismissive hand, and one of the men bowed his head nervously before hurrying away.
As if sensing my presence, Dante looked up.
Our eyes met across the thirty feet of distance separating the ground floor from my balcony. The harsh, lethal expression on his face instantly melted, replaced by that dark, intense scrutiny that made my pulse jump.
He lowered his phone, said something brief to Marco, and walked into the house.
Two minutes later, a knock sounded at my door.
"Come in," I said, retreating slightly toward the bed.
Dante entered. In the bright morning light, he was even more striking. The scar across his eyebrow gave him a rugged, dangerous edge that contrasted sharply with his immaculate clothes and commanding presence.
"You should be resting," he said, walking over to the window and shutting the balcony door to block out the cool breeze. "The doctor said three days of strict bed rest."
"I can't just lie here, Dante," I said, folding my arms across my chest. "I feel like a golden bird in a cage. You erased my identity, you brought my things here... what is the end game? How long are you planning to keep me?"
Dante stepped closer until he was standing just a foot away from me. He was tall—easily six-foot-three—and his shadow seemed to engulf me completely.
"Until the threat is neutralized," he said plainly. "The glass incident at Aurelio's wasn't an accident, Elena."
My breath caught in my throat. "What?"
"Sophie, the waitress who tripped?" Dante’s eyes turned cold as winter. "Her brother owes two hundred thousand dollars to the Luciano crime family—our primary rivals in North Chicago. They paid her to drop a tray containing heavy lead-crystal glasses directly over my son's head. It was meant to look like an unfortunate accident that crippled or killed the heir to the Moretti empire."
A cold shudder ran down my spine. "She... she did that on purpose?"
"She did," Dante said softly. "And if you hadn't moved, Matteo would be in an intensive care unit right now. Or worse."
"Where is Sophie now?" I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Dante’s expression didn't change, but an icy silence filled the room. "She is being questioned by Marco's team. And she will never hurt another child again."
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I swallowed hard, the brutal reality of Dante’s world washing over me like a wave of freezing water. This wasn't a movie. This was the Chicago underworld, and I had accidentally stepped right into the epicenter of a mob war.
"The Lucianos know that someone ruined their plan," Dante continued, taking a step toward me and reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was feather-light, a striking contrast to the violence in his words. "They are looking for the woman who saved my son. Out there, you are dead meat, Elena. In here, you are under the protection of the Moretti family. Which means no one touches a hair on your head without answering to me."
