Chapter 3 - Secrets in the Penthouse
The master suite smelled exclusively of Alessandro.
It was a sprawling expanse of slate-gray Italian marble, polished dark walnut, and expansive floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the stormy expanse of the Long Island Sound. A king-sized bed sat on a raised platform, draped in charcoal Egyptian cotton sheets that Elena had laundered herself a dozen times, never daring to imagine she would ever sit on them.
Now, she was shivering on the edge of the mattress, wrapped in a thick cashmere throw that smelled faintly of his cologne.
Her wet uniform had been replaced with an oversized black sweater she had found in his walk-in closet. It pooled around her wrists and hung loose over her generous curves, hitting her mid-thigh. Outside the heavy oak double doors, she could hear the low, rumbling voices of two armed guards.
She was a prisoner in a golden cage.
Elena pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on her arms. Her mind raced like a runaway train.
*Noah.*
She pictured the little boy’s round cheeks, his unruly dark curls, and the way he giggled whenever she brought him warm pastries from the bakery down the street from their Newark hideout. For three years, Elena had funneled eighty percent of her generous Moretti salary into maintaining that off-grid life for Lena and Noah.
Lena had been running from a nightmare. When she had collapsed outside the diner four years ago, half-dead from hypothermia, she had whispered horrifying things about a mafia prince who treated women like currency. For years, Elena had assumed Lena was running from Marcus Vale.
It was only yesterday, inside suite 1402 of the Langham, that the puzzle pieces had slammed together with devastating, horrifying clarity.
Yesterday afternoon, Elena had walked into that hotel room with her heart in her throat, expecting to find Lena held at gunpoint. Instead, she had found Lena weeping on a velvet sofa while Marcus Vale stood by the window, swirling a glass of scotch.
*“Look at her,”* Vale had chuckled, gesturing to Elena. *“The faithful little maid. Tell me, Elena, does Alessandro know you’re raising his dead brother’s heir?”*
The words had knocked the breath from her lungs.
Noah wasn't Marcus Vale’s child.
Noah was Matteo Moretti’s son.
Matteo—Alessandro’s younger brother, the reckless, charismatic golden boy of the family—had kept Lena secret from everyone. Before he was ambushed and slaughtered in a Queens warehouse three years ago, Matteo had hidden Lena away, knowing that in the brutal politics of the Five Families, an illegitimate child was either a target for assassination or a pawn to be leveraged.
And now, Vale had him.
*“I don’t want the boy dead,”* Vale had told Elena smoothly yesterday, stepping close enough that she could smell the peppermint covering the tobacco on his breath. *“A dead child is useless to me. What I want is Alessandro’s entire southern distribution corridor. The marriage between Alessandro and Victoria Hale cements an alliance that will crush me. If they sign that contract at the gala next week, my empire falls.”*
*“What do you want from me?”* Elena had whispered, trembling.
*“Simple,”* Vale had smiled, reaching out to stroke her cheek with the back of his knuckles—the exact moment the camera shutter had clicked outside the hotel lobby. *“You are Alessandro’s weakness. Don’t play dumb, sweetheart. My people have watched him look at you across restaurant patios and through car windows. He looks at you like a starving man looks at a feast. When the time comes, you will give him an ultimatum. Either he breaks the engagement with the Hale family... or Matteo’s boy disappears into the East River.”*
Elena buried her face in Alessandro’s sweater, breathing in the scent of cedar and wool, tears burning behind her eyelids.
Vale didn't know that Victoria Hale was already playing both sides. Elena was certain of it now. Victoria’s timing with the photograph was too precise. Victoria wasn't trying to stop the engagement; she was trying to eliminate Elena before Elena could warn Alessandro about the trap.
The sound of a heavy brass key turning in the lock made Elena freeze.
The door swung open.
Alessandro stepped into the suite.
He had showered and changed. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the top three buttons undone, dark slacks, and no shoes. His dark hair was still damp, pushed back carelessly from his forehead. But the murderous rage that had burned in the driveway had been replaced by something far more terrifying: absolute, unreadable stillness.
He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked back into place.
In his right hand, he carried a manila folder. In his left, a glass of amber bourbon.
He walked over to the low glass coffee table opposite the bed and set both items down. Then, he looked at her.
His eyes drifted slowly down her frame, taking in the way his sweater clung to the broad curve of her hips and exposed her bare, smooth thighs. A muscle ticked in his jaw. For a second, the mafia boss vanished, replaced by the man who had looked at her across a midnight kitchen with raw, aching longing.
“You’re wearing my clothes,” he noted, his voice quiet.
Elena tugged the hem of the sweater down self-consciously. “My uniform was soaking wet. I didn't have anything else.”
“I’m not complaining.”
He walked to the window, staring out into the rain that still lashed against the glass. He took a sip of his bourbon.
“Dante spent the last ninety minutes running your financials,” Alessandro said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “It’s fascinating, Elena. You earn nearly ninety thousand dollars a year as my head housekeeper. Yet, your bank account currently holds two hundred and fourteen dollars.”
Elena’s throat went dry.
“Every two weeks,” he continued, turning to face her, leaning back against the glass pane, “eighty percent of your pay is transferred into a blind trust registered in Delaware. From there, the money is split. Half goes to a pediatric clinic in Newark. The other half pays the lease on a modest two-bedroom townhouse in a neighborhood you haven't lived in for three years.”
He set his glass down on the sill.
“You don't own designer clothes. You don't take vacations. You drive a rusted Honda that I’ve offered to replace four times, which you stubbornly refused. You eat leftovers from my kitchen.” He picked up the manila folder and flipped it open. “So where has my money been going, Elena? Who are you supporting? Are you paying off Marcus Vale’s debts?”
“No!” she cried, standing up from the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold floor. “I have never given Marcus Vale a single penny! Alessandro, you have to listen to me—”
“Then explain the child!” he roared, slamming the folder down onto the table.
Elena stopped dead. The breath left her body.
Spilled across the glass table were high-resolution photographs.
Not of her.
Of Noah.
Noah playing in a park in Newark. Noah sitting on Lena’s shoulders. And Noah, laughing, holding a small toy wooden truck that Alessandro himself had carved by hand in his workshop two winters ago—a toy Elena had secretly taken from the mansion’s donation box and given to the boy for Christmas.
Alessandro took three predatory strides until he was standing directly in front of her, his towering frame casting a shadow over her completely.
His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a terrible, agonized fury.
“Who is the boy, Elena?” he whispered, his chest heaving against hers. “Is he Vale’s? Were you his mistress before you came to work under my roof? Did you bring his blood into my house?”
Elena looked at him, seeing the profound, bleeding wound behind his rage. He didn't just feel betrayed as a mafia boss. He felt betrayed as a man who had secretly given his heart to a woman he believed was sleeping with his enemy.
She couldn't keep silent anymore. The danger was already here.
“Look at his face, Alessandro,” she said, her voice dropping to a fierce, steady whisper. She reached out, her trembling fingers gently touching his rugged cheek, defying every rule she had followed for two years. “Look at his eyes in that picture. Look at the shape of his jaw. Don't look at Marcus Vale. Look at your own mirror.”
Alessandro stiffened under her touch. His breath caught in his throat.
Slowly, his gaze dropped from her face to the photograph lying on the glass table.
To the little boy with unruly dark curls, broad shoulders, and bright, amber-flecked eyes.
May you like
Matteo’s eyes.
***
