Chapter 4 - SHADOWS OF THE PAST
Two weeks in the Moretti mansion felt like living inside a beautiful, high-security vault.
My life quickly fell into a rigid, exhausting routine. Matteo was a demanding baby, prone to fussiness and erratic sleep schedules, likely a result of the rotating door of caregivers he had experienced in his short life. I spent my days regulating his diet to fix the colic, establishing a strict sleep routine, and playing with him on the expensive Persian rugs of his nursery.
Silas became my permanent shadow. Wherever Matteo and I went—even just to the estate's sprawling gardens for fresh air—the giant bodyguard was there, silent and watchful. I quickly learned that Dominic's paranoia was justified. The Moretti family was currently embroiled in a brutal territorial dispute with a rival faction known as the Falcone syndicate. Whispers of violence echoed through the mansion's halls, but Dominic strictly enforced my rule: the nursery remained a sanctuary.
Dominic himself was a ghost during the day, consumed by his bloody empire. But at night, things were different.
It was 2:00 AM. I was sitting in the plush rocking chair by the window, humming a soft lullaby to Matteo, who was finally drifting off after a nightmare. The door creaked open, and Dominic slipped into the room. He looked exhausted. His tie was undone, his hair disheveled, and there was a dark smear of what looked suspiciously like dried blood on the cuff of his shirt.
He didn't say a word. He just walked over to the rocking chair and stood there, watching us in the dim light of the moon filtering through the security glass.
"He had a bad dream," I whispered, not wanting to wake the baby.
Dominic nodded slowly, leaning against the edge of the changing table. "You're good with him. Better than I expected."
"He just needs consistency. And love."
Dominic’s expression tightened. "I love my son."
"I know you do," I said softly. "But love from a distance isn't enough for a baby. He needs to feel you. Hold him."
I stood up and offered Matteo to him. Dominic hesitated, looking at his hands, then at the blood on his cuff. "I'm dirty," he muttered. "I carry the stench of this city."
"He doesn't care about the city," I insisted. "He only knows his father."
Reluctantly, Dominic took the baby. He cradled Matteo with a surprising gentleness, the contrast between his violent life and the fragile infant stark and heartbreaking. He walked over to the window, staring out at the dark estate, rocking his son.
I turned away to tidy the crib, giving them a moment of privacy. As I fluffed the blankets, my elbow knocked a small bag off the nightstand. It hit the floor, spilling its contents. Out tumbled a few pacifiers, a thermometer, and my framed photograph of Leo.
The frame cracked upon impact. The sound was loud in the quiet room.
Dominic turned sharply. "What happened?"
"Nothing," I said quickly, dropping to my knees to gather the items. My hands shook as I picked up the photo. The glass was shattered, obscuring the smiling face of my four-month-old son. A fresh wave of grief, raw and suffocating, washed over me. I bit my lip hard, trying to hold back the tears, but a ragged sob escaped.
Dominic walked over and knelt beside me, still holding Matteo with one arm. He reached out and gently took the photograph from my trembling hands. He studied the image of the blonde, blue-eyed baby, then looked at my tear-stained face.
"Who is this?" he asked, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.
"My son," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "Leo."
"Where is he?"
I squeezed my eyes shut. "He died. Four years ago. Congenital heart defect. He fought so hard, but his little heart just... gave out. After that, I couldn't go back to the hospital. I couldn't look at another sick child without seeing him."
Dominic was silent for a long time. I expected him to offer hollow platitudes, to tell me he was sorry or that time heals all wounds. Instead, he reached out his free hand and wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb. His touch was calloused, rough, yet incredibly gentle.
"You carry a heavy ghost, Elara," he murmured, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "It takes immense strength to hold another child after losing your own. I understand now why you fought so fiercely in that restaurant. You weren't just saving Matteo. You were trying to save Leo."
My breath hitched. He saw right through me. He stripped away my defenses without a single ounce of effort.
"We are both broken people," Dominic said, his voice a low rumble vibrating in the quiet room. He leaned closer, the distance between us vanishing. "But you keep the darkness away from him. For that, I owe you everything."
For a fleeting second, his gaze dropped to my lips. The air between us grew thick, charged with an undeniable, terrifying heat. My heart hammered against my ribs, caught between grief and a sudden, wildly inappropriate attraction to the deadliest man in Chicago.
Before either of us could cross the line, a deafening explosion shattered the quiet night.
The blast shook the entire mansion. The window glass behind us cracked but held, spiderwebbing under the force of the shockwave. Alarms began to blare instantly, high-pitched and frantic. Gunfire erupted from the front gates, heavy automatic bursts tearing through the silence.
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Dominic’s eyes widened, the tender moment evaporating instantly as the mafia boss returned. He thrust Matteo into my arms.
"Get him to the safe room," Dominic roared over the sirens, drawing a heavy black pistol from the holster at the small of his back. "Now, Elara! Move!"
