Chapter 2 - Shadows at the DoorThe rain lashed against the windows of Lena’s apartment, creating a soothing white noise that masked the quiet anxiety gnawing at her bones. She had just finished setting up a small desk for her freelance translation projects when a sharp, authoritative knock echoed through the hallway.
Lena froze. Her breath hitched. How could they have found me?
She tiptoed to the door, peering through the peephole. It wasn’t Dante’s men in their tailored black suits. It was a delivery courier holding a bulky, unmarked envelope.
Reluctantly, she cracked the door open a chain’s length. "Can I help you?"
"Package for Ms. Lena Vance," the courier said, his eyes avoiding hers. "Sign here."
She signed quickly, grabbed the heavy envelope, and slammed the door shut, locking all three deadbolts. Sitting on her worn sofa, she ripped open the seal. Inside wasn't a legal document or a divorce filing. It was a stack of old photographs—pictures from their first year together, taken on a secluded beach in Italy where Dante had laughed without his guard up, holding her waist as the Mediterranean waves crashed around them.
Scrawled on the back of the top photo in Dante’s sharp, slashing handwriting were three words: Please come home.
Lena’s hands trembled. A sudden wave of morning sickness rolled over her, sharp and unforgiving, forcing her to drop the photos and run to the bathroom. As she knelt over the porcelain basin, clutching her stomach protectively, a surge of fierce maternal fury mixed with her grief.
He thinks a few nostalgic photos can erase the perfume on his jacket? she thought, wiping her mouth with a towel. He thinks my life is just something he can pause and resume whenever it's convenient?
She walked back out, scooped up the photographs, and threw them straight into the kitchen trash bin. She couldn't afford to look back. She was eating for three now, and her babies needed a mother who wasn't chained to a monster disguised as a prince.
Unbeknownst to Lena, three floors down, a black sedan sat idling in the shadows of the underground garage. Inside sat Mateo, tapping his finger against the steering wheel as he looked at a laptop screen tracking the digital ping of the burner phone envelope they had traced.
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"Got a hit, Boss," Mateo murmured into his comms piece. "She’s on Maple Street. Building 402."
On the other end of the line, miles away in a darkened boardroom, Dante went entirely silent. "Don't move in," Dante commanded, his voice trembling with a rare, raw hesitation. "Just watch the doors. I'm coming myself."
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