Chapter 4 - The Locked Door
The west wing suite was larger than Elina’s entire apartment.
It featured a king-sized bed draped in heavy white silks, a seating area with velvet armchairs facing a stone fireplace, and a marble bathroom stocked with plush towels and expensive toiletries that smelled of lavender and vanilla. But despite the luxury, it was unmistakably a cage.
Elina paced the length of the Persian rug for two hours, tugging at the heavy brass handles of the double doors leading back to the hallway. Locked. She checked the tall, arched windows overlooking the courtyard; they were fitted with thick, security-grade glass that didn't budge even when she slammed her palm against it.
"Damn him," she muttered, kicking off her cheap, worn-out work shoes and pacing barefoot across the cold floor.
At around 3:00 AM, a soft knock sounded at the door.
Elina froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She grabbed a heavy crystal perfume bottle from the vanity table, holding it like a club.
"Go away!" she yelled.
The door clicked open, and the middle-aged woman in the gray dress slipped inside, carrying a silver tray laden with roasted chicken, fresh bread, fruit, and a steaming pot of chamomile tea. She looked at the perfume bottle in Elina’s hand with mild, unbothered curiosity.
"Put that down, dear," the woman said, her voice carrying a heavy, lilting Irish accent. "You'll only crack the crystal, and Mr. Moretti buys those by the crate."
"Who are you?" Elina demanded, lowering the bottle an inch. "Are you his warden?"
"I'm Mrs. Higgins," the woman replied, setting the tray down on the mahogany dining table near the fire. "I've raised Dante since he was a boy, and now I'm raising little Leo. Eat your supper. You look like a stiff breeze would knock you flat."
"I don't want supper, I want out of here," Elina said, stepping closer to the older woman. "Mrs. Higgins, please. You look like a sensible person. You must know this is insane. He dragged me out of my restaurant over a hunch—over a picture of a dead woman!"
Mrs. Higgins paused, a slice of apple poised on a small silver fork. She turned slowly, her pale blue eyes scanning Elina’s face with a thorough, clinical intensity that made Elina feel like she was being dissected under a microscope.
"She isn't dead," Mrs. Higgins said softly.
Elina stopped breathing. "What?"
"Elena Moretti—Dante's wife, Leo's mother—disappeared from this very house eighteen months ago," Mrs. Higgins said, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper as she glanced toward the closed hallway door. "The police called it a kidnapping by a rival syndicate. Dante tore half the city apart looking for her. But her body was never found. No ransom note. Nothing. Just a car left abandoned by the docks with her purse inside."
"And he thinks... he thinks I'm her?" Elina’s voice was barely a squeak. "That's impossible! I've lived in Chicago my whole life! I went to public school, I worked at a diner, I struggled to pay rent! I'm not some mob boss's missing wife!"
"Are you certain?" Mrs. Higgins asked gently, stepping closer and reaching out to brush a stray lock of dark hair away from Elina’s forehead. "Look in the mirror, child. Not just at your face—look at the scar on your left collarbone."
Elina’s breath hitched. She instinctively pulled the collar of her shirt higher, covering the faint, jagged white line left by a bad bicycle accident she’d had when she was seven years old.
"How did you—"
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"Elena had that exact same scar," Mrs. Higgins whispered. "Right down to the millimeter. Got it falling out of an oak tree in her uncle's backyard when she was a girl."
Mrs. Higgins turned and walked toward the door, pausing with her hand on the brass knob. "Eat your food, Elina. Whether you want to believe it or not, your life changed the moment that little boy grabbed your finger tonight. There's no going back through those gates."
