Chapter 2 - The Fortress on the Lake
An hour later, a convoy of three bulletproof black SUVs tore through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago, heading north toward Gold Coast.
I sat in the middle row of the lead vehicle, holding Mateo wrapped in a soft cashmere blanket Dominic had retrieved from the bassinet. Beside us sat Dominic, silently reviewing encrypted messages on his phone, while Marco drove.
We pulled up to a massive, wrought-iron gate that opened into a heavily fortified limestone mansion overlooking Lake Michigan. High walls, motion sensors, and armed guards patrolling the perimeter made it clear that this wasn't just a home—it was a military stronghold.
"Welcome to the Moretti estate," Dominic said as the vehicle came to a stop beneath the grand portico.
A butler in a sharp suit held the door open, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw me carrying the sleeping heir of the Moretti empire.
Dominic led me up a grand marble staircase to the third floor. He pushed open a set of double mahogany doors, revealing a massive, sunlit suite that had clearly been designed for a queen.
"This was my wife's private wing," Dominic said, stopping at the threshold. "The nursery is connected through that door on the left. Everything you requested on the drive here—hypoallergenic formula, infant monitors, specialized colic bottles, and medical-grade oxygen units—is already being delivered by my men."
I walked into the nursery. It was beautiful, but completely cold and sterile. It looked like a luxury showroom rather than a room meant for a baby.
"First rule, Mr. Moretti," I said, setting Mateo gently down into a state-of-the-art crib. "Turn down these harsh overhead lights. Newborns have sensitive eyes. He needs soft, warm lighting and low ambient noise."
Dominic immediately turned to his butler. "You heard her. Fix it."
"Yes, Mr. Moretti," the butler bowed, rushing out to adjust the lighting controls.
I spent the next two hours establishing a clinical routine. I assessed Mateo from head to toe, recording his weight, temperature, oxygen saturation, and lung clarity using the medical supplies Marco had brought from an all-night pharmacy.
Dominic didn't leave. He stood quietly in the corner of the room, his large frame leaning against the wall, watching my every move with intense concentration.
"He's underweight by eight ounces," I noted, writing on a chart I had created. "He has mild reflux, which was made worse by the improper formula those previous nurses were using. We're switching to an hydrolyzed protein formula, fed in smaller increments every two and a half hours."
"You speak like a doctor," Dominic remarked, walking over to stand beside the crib.
"I finished three years of pediatric nursing at Northwestern before..." I trailed off, staring at the tiny heart monitor clip attached to Mateo's foot.
"Before your son died," Dominic completed the sentence gently.
I looked up, surprised by the softness in his tone.
"What was his name?" Dominic asked.
"Leo," I whispered, the word feeling like an open wound. "He had a severe congenital heart defect. He was eight months old when his heart gave out. I did CPR for twenty minutes in the ICU before the doctors called the time."
Dominic looked at his son, then back at me. "Loss changes a person, Hannah. It makes you a survivor, or it destroys you. You chose to survive."
"I didn't survive," I admitted, looking at my hands. "I just hid. Until tonight."
"Well," Dominic said, stepping closer, his presence commanding yet strangely reassuring. "You're not hiding anymore. You're in my house now. And as long as you are here, no harm will ever touch you."
Before I could reply, the door to the nursery burst open.
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A sharp-featured woman in an expensive crimson dress stepped into the room, flanked by two armed guards. Her eyes locked onto me, flashing with immediate hostility.
"Dominic!" she snapped, her voice dripping with poison. "Who is this servant, and why is she holding Julianna’s baby?!"
