Chapter 5 - A Glance Beneath the Wood
Under the cavern of the massive desk, Emily sat curled on the cold floor, the silence above her vibrating with a strange, magnetic tension.
She knew the name too. Every child raised in the wealthier suburbs of Chicago knew the ghost stories whispered about the Moretti family—men who owned the night, who operated beyond the reach of badges, gavels, and ballots. For three years, Derek had terrified her with his connections to judges and police chiefs, convincing her that no court in the state would ever grant her freedom from him. Derek had made himself seem like an all-powerful god of her small, miserable world.
And yet, with a single sentence from an armed guard, her terrifying husband had been reduced to a pale, sweating statue.
The room remained suspended in suffocating stillness.
Then, Alexander moved his head.
It was an almost imperceptible shift. Without turning his shoulders, without alerting Derek to the space between his knees, Alexander lowered his dark hazel eyes. His gaze dipped below the edge of the heavy walnut trim, piercing the shadow of the kneehole.
In the gloom, his eyes found hers.
Emily’s breath caught in her throat. She looked up into the face of Chicago’s most feared syndicate boss, expecting to see disgust, irritation, or the cold calculation of a man deciding how to dispose of an inconvenience.
Instead, she saw an ocean of unshakeable reassurance.
His eyes were warm, dark, and steady as an anchor dropped in deep water. There was no pity in his expression—Alexander Moretti was not a man who insulted the wounded with pity. There was only a calm, unyielding promise. His gaze lingered on her tear-stained cheeks, traveled briefly to her fingers still wrapped around her marked wrist, and then locked back onto her eyes. He gave a microscopic nod, a silent, unspoken decree: Stay still. You are under my roof. You are untouchable.
A heavy, shuddering breath escaped Emily’s lips, so quiet it was swallowed by the carpet.
May you like
The icy terror that had frozen her chest for the last hour began to thaw, replaced by a fragile, tentative warmth. Her white-knuckled grip on her right wrist slowly unclenched. Her trembling fingers slid away from the bruised skin, resting flat against the dark fabric of her slate-blue dress. She leaned her shoulder against the interior panel of the desk, exhaling the stale panic that had choked her since she fled the dining room.
Above her, the floorboards didn't groan. The desk didn't shake. The man sitting above her was a fortress, and for the first time since she had walked down the aisle with Derek Carter, Emily felt the miraculous, dizzying sensation of safety.
