Chapter 3 - The Price of the Crown
The transition from domestic partner to Chicago’s most feared power broker happened in the span of a single heartbeat. Adrian adjusted his cuffs, the softness in his eyes hardening back into obsidian as he looked down at his phone. The shipping dock dispute on the Chicago River wasn’t just a business disagreement; it was a territorial test by rivals who sensed vulnerability during Moretti Holdings’ recent restructuring.
“Stay here,” Adrian instructed, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Marcus will station two men outside your door. Nobody gets in.”
“I am not a prisoner in my own home, Adrian,” I said, standing up from the sofa despite the dull ache in my back. “If your enemies think they can use me to get to you, hiding me behind locked doors won’t stop them. It just makes me a sitting duck.”
Adrian stopped at the threshold, his hand on the doorknob. He looked at me with a mixture of frustration and fierce admiration. “You haven’t changed at all, Elena. That’s what terrifies me the most.”
“Go handle your business,” I said, crossing my arms. “And don’t take too long. You still have to help me prep dinner according to Dr. Sloan’s strict protein mandates.”
A faint shadow of a smile touched his lips before he pulled the door shut behind him.
The next two hours dragged by in a haze of anxiety and rhythmic kicking from my daughter, who seemed to share her father’s restless energy. Marcus remained stationed in the hallway, his presence a silent reminder of the invisible cage surrounding my life. I tried to focus on editing a manuscript for a freelance client, but the words blurred together on the screen. The reality of my situation pressed down on me: I was tethered to a man who lived in the crosshairs of federal agents and criminal syndicates, carrying a child who would inherit both his name and his enemies.
When the front door finally clicked open late in the afternoon, Adrian walked in looking exhausted. His tie was loosened, and the top button of his shirt was undone. There were no visible signs of violence—Adrian didn’t leave messes, he left settlements—but the exhaustion etched around his eyes told the story of a brutal negotiation.
“Resolved?” I asked, not looking up from my laptop.
“Temporarily,” Adrian said, tossing his keys onto the table and walking over to the sofa. He didn’t sit; instead, he rested his hands on the back of the couch, looking down at me. “The North Side agreed to back off the river docks in exchange for the rail logistics contract out of Joliet. It keeps peace for another six months.”
“And after six months?”
“We renegotiate or we fight,” he said simply. He walked into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter. “Elena, we need to talk about what happens when she’s born.”
My fingers froze on the keyboard. I turned slowly to face him. “What about when she’s born?”
“She needs security. Real security. Not two guys standing in a hallway,” Adrian said, his voice dropping into a serious, measured cadence. “She needs the estate in Lake Forest. Bulletproof glass, private grounds, a pediatric wing built into the west wing. You can’t raise a Moretti heir in a third-floor walk-up in Lincoln Park.”
The word Moretti hung in the air like a falling blade.
“She is my child too, Adrian,” I said, my voice rising with a sudden surge of protective fury. “She is not an asset for your estate, she is not a corporate heir, and she is certainly not going to live behind barbed wire just because you can’t keep your life civilized!”
“You think I want this for her?” Adrian snapped, slamming his glass down onto the counter with enough force to rattle the dishes. The outburst was so sudden, so raw, that it silenced us both. He dragged a hand through his dark hair, breathing heavily. “You think I enjoy knowing that every enemy I’ve ever made could eventually look at my daughter as leverage? I am trying to keep her alive, Elena.”
“Then maybe you should have thought about that before you built an empire on blood and intimidation,” I whispered, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
May you like
Adrian flinched as though I had struck him physically. He turned away, staring out the small kitchen window toward the gray Chicago skyline.
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