Chapter 7 - The Gilded Veil Tears
Slowly, with the terrifying, agonizing slowness of a mountain shifting on its tectonic fault, Dante Russo turned his head away from the ultrasound photographs.
He turned toward Emily.
Every single detail that he had failed to comprehend five minutes ago now stood out in vivid, agonizing relief.
He saw her swollen, bare feet resting against the cold, unyielding marble floor, her toes curled slightly in defense against the draft. He saw the hem of the short black uniform, barely covering her thighs, an outfit designed to expose her body to the crude glances of anyone walking the halls. He saw the stiff white collar, chafing against the tender skin of her neck. He saw the white lace-trimmed apron, stretched so violently over the magnificent, swollen sphere of her twin belly that the thin strings were biting deep, red welts into her lower ribs.
He looked at her face.
The soft, angelic features of the woman who used to play Chopin on the grand piano in their conservatory were hollowed by starvation. Her cheekbones stood out starkly against her pale skin, her lips dry and bleeding at the corner. Her chestnut hair, which he used to comb with his own scarred fingers before sleep, was tangled in a humiliating, greasy mess of broken hairpins.
And her eyes.
Her brown eyes were filled with an agony so profound, so devastating, that Dante felt his knees buckle by a millimeter. She was staring at him not as her protector, not as her husband, but as the monster who had condemned her to this hell. One of her trembling hands remained frozen against the lower curve of her stomach, protectively shielding the twins from his sight, as though terrified he had come to take them from her flesh.
A crushing, suffocating wave of guilt crashed through Dante Russo’s chest, ripping away the armor of the mafia king and leaving behind only a broken, horrified man.
He remembered her standing on the private airfield in Chicago six months ago, holding his lapel, whispering to him with tears in her eyes: “Don’t stay away too long, Dante. Something in the house feels cold.”
He had kissed her forehead, handed her a platinum credit card, and told her she was the queen of the city, that no one would dare touch what belonged to him. He had placed his trust in the syndicate's lieutenants, in the security systems, and in Vanessa Laurent’s polished reports.
He had left his kingdom to conquer dirt, while his queen was being beaten, starved, and dressed in livery.
Behind Dante, the silence of the corridor was punctured by the faint, nervous click of Vanessa’s diamond earrings as her head twitched toward the elevator bank. She had begun to take a subtle, silent step backward, her hand reaching behind her to gather the train of her deep-red gown, preparing to slip away before the storm broke.
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She had seen Dante Russo kill before. She had seen him dismantle an entire five-man crew with a brass knuckle when they skimmed four percent off a shipment in Gary.
She knew that the man standing before Emily was no longer the Don who listened to financial briefings. He was a demon waking up to the realization that his sanctuary had been desecrated.
