Chapter 5 - Echoes of the Past
The blue guest suite on the third floor was larger than Lena’s entire apartment, featuring a king-sized bed draped in silk, a roaring marble fireplace, and tall french doors opening onto a private balcony overlooking the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan.
Dr. Vance, a quiet, methodical man with silver hair and a weathered leather medical bag, finished stitching up the graze on Lena’s left shoulder with clinical precision.
“Clean wound,” Dr. Vance stated professionally, snapping his bag shut. “The bullet only parted the skin and muscle tissue, but you’ll need to keep it immobilized for a few days. No heavy lifting, no sudden movements, and take the antibiotics every eight hours.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Lena murmured, pulling her loose cotton blouse back over her bandaged shoulder.
“Mr. DeSantis does not typically bring outsiders into the main residence,” Dr. Vance added quietly as he walked toward the door. “The fact that you are here means two things: you are under his personal protection, and you are currently the most dangerous person in his life.”
Before Lena could ask what that cryptic warning meant, the doctor slipped out of the room, leaving her alone with the crackling fire and her own racing thoughts.
She walked over to the french doors, looking out over the dark lake. Her mind spun wildly. A few hours ago, she was just another broke waitress dodging bills and praying for a decent tip. Now, she was locked inside an impenetrable mob fortress, guarded by armed men, because a six-year-old girl had looked up at her through the smoke and called her Mommy.
The door clicked open softly.
Marco DeSantis walked in, holding a steaming porcelain cup of chamomile tea. He had changed into a dark charcoal sweater and relaxed trousers, looking less like a syndicate kingpin and more like a tired father trying to make sense of an impossible day.
He walked across the Persian rug and held the cup out to her.
Lena hesitated, then took it, her fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm, contrasting sharply with the cold, intimidating aura he projected to the outside world.
“How is your shoulder?” Marco asked, leaning casually against the marble mantelpiece of the fireplace.
“It hurts,” Lena answered honestly, taking a small sip of the tea. “But I’ll live. More importantly... how is Sophia?”
“She woke up an hour ago, ate a bowl of soup, and asked when she could go see her new mommy,” Marco said, a faint, melancholic smile touching the corner of his lips.
Lena choked slightly on her tea, setting the cup down on the side table with a clatter. “Mr. DeSantis, about that... in the café, she was terrified. Kids say things when they’re panicked. She didn't mean—”
“I know what she meant,” Marco interrupted quietly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an unsettling intensity. “Sophia hasn’t called anyone Mommy in three years. Not since her mother passed away.”
The room went dead silent. The crack of burning logs in the fireplace sounded deafening.
“Passed away?” Lena repeated softly. “I’m... I’m so sorry.”
Marco pushed away from the mantelpiece, walking slowly toward the window until he stood just inches from Lena. Up close, she could see the profound, heavy grief etched into the lines around his eyes—a grief that money, power, and an army of enforcers could never touch.
“Her mother’s name was Elena,” Marco said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly whisper. “Elena Vance. A young, brilliant woman who worked as an archivist downtown, who loved old books, and who had honey-brown hair just like yours.”
Lena’s breath caught in her throat. The room seemed to tilt on its axis.
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“What... what are you saying?” Lena whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“I am saying, Lena Moore,” Marco said, reaching out to gently trace a lock of hair behind her ear, “that you didn't just happen to walk into Romano’s Café eighteen months ago. And you didn't just happen to be standing in the right place when the bullets started flying today.”
