Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Shadows
The servants' quarters were located in the quietest wing of the lower estate, a network of modest suites lined with gray carpet and plain oak doors. Gabriel moved through the corridor like a predator in a tempest, his heavy footfalls echoing off the plaster walls.
Guards stationed at the corridor junction snapped to attention, their eyes widening in shock as their boss swept past them without a word, his expression terrifyingly feral.
Gabriel stopped outside Door 104.
He didn’t knock. He twisted the brass knob, finding it locked from the inside. Without hesitation, he drove his heel directly beside the latch, splintering the frame with a deafening crack. The door swung open and slammed against the interior wall.
Inside, the room was small and immaculate. A small cot sat against the far wall where Maisie lay sleeping beneath a quilted blanket, a stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin. At the sudden crash, the little girl stirred, whimpering softly.
Standing between Gabriel and the cot was Nora.
She had stripped away the bulky gray uniform. She wore simple dark jeans and a black turtleneck. Her thick glasses lay on the nightstand. In her right hand, raised with terrifying stability, was a compact .38 revolver pointed directly at Gabriel’s chest.
Her face was bare. The stoop in her posture was gone. Though her hair was still dyed brown, the sharp cheekbones, the lush lower lip, and those piercing hazel eyes belonged to only one person on earth.
“Don’t wake her, Gabriel,” she whispered. Her voice was no longer the timid mumble of a maid. It was smooth, rich, and laced with absolute steel.
Gabriel froze in the doorway, staring at her as if she were an apparition pulled from the depths of purgatory. The air in his lungs felt like glass.
“Elena,” he breathed.
Her jaw clenched, tears instantly welling in her eyes, though her gun never wavered. “Step back into the hallway. Now.”
Gabriel didn't retreat. Instead, he took a slow, agonizing step forward. He didn't care about the barrel aimed at his heart. He had died four years ago anyway; if she wanted to put a bullet in him, he would welcome it.
“You’re alive,” he whispered, his vision swimming with tears he hadn't shed in half a decade. “My God, you’re alive.”
“Stop moving, Gabriel!” Elena hissed, her finger tightening on the trigger. “I swear to God, I will shoot you if you bring your war into this room!”
“Shoot me, then,” Gabriel said, closing the distance until the cold muzzle of the revolver pressed directly against his sternum. “Shoot me, Elena. But look at me first.”
Her hand trembled. A tear spilled over her dark lashes, tracing a path down her cheek. The weapon shook, then dropped to her side. Elena looked down, her shoulders shaking with silent, wracking sobs.
Gabriel reached out, his calloused hands cupping her face. He touched her skin—warm, real, soft—confirming she wasn't a hallucination spawned by too much scotch and guilt.
“Why?” he choked out. “Why did you let me believe you were dead? Why did you hide here, in my house, cleaning my floors?”
Elena looked up, her gaze suddenly blazing with fierce, protective fury. “Because you couldn't protect me, Gabriel! And you couldn't protect her!”
She pointed a trembling finger at the cot where Maisie was now sitting up, rubbing her sleepy eyes.
“Mama?” Maisie’s soft voice broke the silence. She blinked, looking from her mother to the towering mafia boss standing in their bedroom. “Mister Boss? Did you like the caramels?”
Gabriel turned his gaze to the little girl. The resemblance hit him like a physical blow. The shape of her jaw, the way her brows drew together, the intense hazel eyes—half Elena, half him.
Four years old. Born nine months after that terrible night in October.
“Maisie,” Gabriel whispered, dropping to his knees. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight. The most feared crime lord in Chicago looked up at a four-year-old child with an expression of pure, unvarnished reverence. “You... you’re mine.”
“She’s ours,” Elena corrected, stepping between them, though her stance was no longer hostile, only protective. “I was already pregnant the night of the bombing. When the car exploded, your driver managed to throw me clear into the ditch before the gas tank ignited. I woke up in a clinic across the state line with third-degree burns and no ID.”
“Why didn't you come back to me?” Gabriel demanded, his voice thick with agony. “I would have torn this city apart to keep you safe!”
“You don't understand!” Elena grabbed his lapels, pulling him close so her words were a fierce whisper. “It wasn't the Bratva that put that bomb under your car, Gabriel. It wasn't the Irish. I overheard the mechanics before the blast. It was Silvio!”
Gabriel’s blood ran cold.
“Silvio wanted you dead,” Elena whispered, tears streaming freely now. “When he saw that I survived and you weren't in the car, he sent men to the hospital to finish me. I barely escaped through the basement. I knew if I came to you, Silvio would just try again. He would keep coming until he killed you, me, and our unborn baby.”
“So you hid,” Gabriel said, the pieces falling into place with sickening clarity.
“For three years, I lived in rural Iowa under a fake name,” Elena said. “Working diners, raising our daughter in the shadows. But then two months ago, Silvio’s enforcers showed up in town looking for an unregistered clinic record. They were closing in. I knew the only place Silvio wouldn't look for me was right under his nose—in your house, behind a mop and a name tag.”
Gabriel stood up slowly, a terrifying, icy calm settling over his broad shoulders. The grief that had consumed him for four years burned away, replaced by an inferno of pure, murderous intent.
Silvio had taken his wife. Silvio had forced his daughter to grow up in hiding.
Suddenly, the screech of tires echoed from the rear courtyard below the bedroom window.
A red laser dot danced across the plaster wall, gliding past Elena’s shoulder and centering directly on Maisie’s small forehead.
May you like
“GET DOWN!” Gabriel roared, lunging forward and slamming Elena and Maisie into the carpet just as a high-powered rifle bullet shattered the window, sending shards of glass raining down like ice.
***
