Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Past
For the next four days, my life became a surreal blur of luxury, recovery, and quiet observation.
My back was healing quickly thanks to Dr. Lorenzo’s care, though two long, jagged red lines remained across my skin—permanent scars from the night I chose not to look away.
I spent my time in the estate’s massive library, reading books, or in the gardens with Matteo. The little boy had attached himself to me like glue. He brought me his drawing books, showed me his favorite hiding spots in the hedge maze, and insisted that I sit next to him during lunch.
Through Matteo, I saw a completely different side of Dante Moretti.
To the world, to his men, and to his enemies, Dante was a ruthless, cold-blooded Don who ruled Chicago’s south side with an iron fist. But when he walked into the playroom at six o'clock every evening, stripping off his holster and tossing his coat aside to lift his son into the air, he was simply a father who adored his child.
Matteo’s mother, I learned from Rosa, had passed away three years ago from a sudden illness. Dante had raised the boy alone ever since, surrounded by armed guards and the constant specter of violence.
On the fifth evening, I was sitting in the library near the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the rain strike the glass, when the door opened.
It wasn't Dante or Matteo.
It was a woman. She was strikingly beautiful, perhaps in her early thirties, dressed in a sharp, tailored white suit with crimson lipstick and jet-black hair tied in a sleek bun. Her high heels clicked loudly against the hardwood floor as she strolled into the room, her eyes locking onto me with cold contempt.
"So," the woman said, stopping five feet away, her arms crossed over her chest. "This is the little waitress everyone is talking about."
I stood up slowly, feeling an instinctual flare of defense. "And you are?"
"Bianca Luciano," she said smoothly, a cruel, mocking smile touching her lips. "Or rather, Bianca Moretti’s cousin, if we're being technical about old alliance treaties. My father runs the West Side."
Luciano. The name struck a chord of instant terror in my chest.
"What are you doing in Dante’s house?" I asked, keeping my voice as steady as possible.
"I have business with Dante," Bianca said, walking around me slowly, analyzing my simple clothes, my bare face, my posture. "Business that doesn't involve broken little charity cases. You think you're special because you took some glass for Matteo? You think Dante keeping you in this house means he cares about you?"
She took a step closer, leaning in so I could smell her heavy, suffocating perfume.
"Dante is keeping you here because you're a liability, sweetie," Bianca hissed softly. "He doesn't view you as a woman. He views you as an asset—a witness to be contained. Once the war with my father’s family is settled, Dante will toss you back into the gutter where he found you. Or worse... he'll make sure you disappear permanently so you can never testify about what you've seen in this house."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but before I could reply, a voice rang out from the doorway like a thunderclap.
"That's enough, Bianca."
Dante stood in the doorway. His coat was damp from the rain outside, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stood out like cords. The air in the room instantly dropped below zero.
Bianca didn't flinch, but her smile faltered slightly as she turned to face him. "Dante. I was just introducing myself to your... guest."
"You were speaking in my house without my permission," Dante said, his voice terrifyingly quiet as he walked into the room. He didn't even look at Bianca; his eyes were fixed entirely on me, checking for any sign of distress. "And you were threatening someone under my protection."
"She’s a nobody, Dante!" Bianca snapped, dropping her polite facade. "My father sent me here to negotiate a truce before this foolish war escalates any further! We are offering you a resolution, but you're hiding out in your estate fussing over a servant!"
Dante stopped right in front of Bianca. He was so much taller than her that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
"Tell your father," Dante said, his voice dropping into a rasp that sent shivers down my spine, "that there will be no truce. He tried to murder my son. He used a weak girl to throw crystal at a five-year-old child."
"It was a warning!" Bianca argued.
"It was a declaration of total war," Dante corrected. "And tell him that if you ever step foot on my property again, or speak another word to Elena, I will send your body back to the West Side in a wooden box."
Bianca’s face went pale. She realized, too late, that she had crossed a line from which there was no return. Without another word, she spun on her heel and hurried out of the library, the frantic click of her heels fading down the grand hallway.
Silence returned to the room, broken only by the sound of the rain outside.
Dante turned to me, his dark eyes searching my face. "Did she touch you?"
"No," I whispered, resting a hand against the edge of the mahogany desk to steady myself. "Dante... is she right?"
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Dante frowned. "About what?"
"Am I just a witness to you?" I looked up into his eyes, fighting back the lump forming in my throat. "Are you going to make me disappear when this is over?"
