Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Syndicate
The master bedroom was bathed in the soft, golden light of the bedside lamps. I sat prop up against the velvet headboard, a cup of warm chamomile tea resting untouched on the nightstand. Outside, rain lashed against the bulletproof glass windows, blurring the lights of the forest.
Dorian sat at his desk across the room, surrounded by three encrypted laptops and a stack of financial ledgers. He had stripped off his suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his white crisp shirt up to his elbows, revealing the faint scars on his forearms—reminders of the war he had fought to claim top authority in Chicago five years ago.
"You need to sleep," he said without looking up from his screen.
"I can't sleep when I'm being held hostage in my own life," I replied, crossing my arms. "And you haven't answered my question. How did Valenti find out about the lawyer's office today?"
Dorian’s fingers paused over the keyboard. Slowly, he closed the laptop lid and looked at me across the dimly lit room.
"Only four people knew about the appointment today," he said calmly. "Me, you, Mr. Vance, and my inner core."
"Which means you still have a leak," I said, a chill running down my spine. "Six months of driving me away, six months of making my life a living nightmare, and you didn't even catch the rat."
"The rat was quiet because I gave them nothing to bite on," Dorian said, standing up and walking toward the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight. He reached out, his long fingers hesitating before gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was so tender, so reminiscent of the man who used to hold me while the world burned outside, that tears prickled my eyes again. "Until today. Today, when you collapsed, I broke my own rule. I showed emotion in front of Vance and my guards."
"You looked scared," I murmured, looking into his deep grey eyes.
"I was terrified," he confessed softly. "I have killed men with my bare hands, Alina. I have faced down federal indictments and rival cartels without my heart rate rising past seventy. But when I saw you fall toward that floor... my soul left my body."
He lowered his hand to my stomach, letting his broad, warm palm rest lightly over the silk of my nightshirt. I held my breath, watching him. The dangerous mob boss of Chicago looked down at my midsection with an expression of reverence so absolute it took my breath away.
"There is a life in here," he whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the fabric. "Our blood. Yours and mine."
"Dorian..." My voice trembled. "We can't just pretend the last six months didn't happen. You hurt me. You destroyed my trust. You forced me to grieve a marriage while I was still wearing your ring."
"I know," he said, looking up, his eyes dark with immense guilt. "And I will spend the rest of my life begging for your forgiveness. But right now, Alina, I need you to survive. Valenti knows you didn't sign those papers. He knows I brought you back here. He will realize why soon enough."
Suddenly, the house’s internal alarm chimed twice—a quiet, subtle tone that meant an unauthorized vehicle had just breached the outer gates.
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Dorian was on his feet in a fraction of a second. He pulled a matte-black sidearm from his shoulder holster, racked the slide with a sharp, mechanical clack, and turned to me with eyes that were no longer those of a husband, but of a apex predator ready to hunt.
"Stay behind the reinforced door," he ordered coldly. "Do not open it for anyone except me."
