Chapter 4 - Waking Up in the Lion’s Den
When consciousness finally dragged me back to the surface, the first thing I felt was a dull, throbbing ache radiating from the base of my skull.
The second thing I felt was cold. Piercing, bone-chilling cold.
I tried to move my hands, but my wrists scraped against coarse hemp rope. I was tied tightly to a heavy wooden chair in the center of a room that smelled distinctly of damp earth, old leather, and expensive bourbon.
Slowly, I forced my heavy eyelids open.
The room was vast and dimly lit, dominated by floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, a massive Persian rug, and a wall of arched windows looking out over what appeared to be a private dock on the Chicago River. Heavy gray fog rolled across the dark water outside, obscuring the distant skyline of the city.
A private study. But whose?
“Well, well. Look who’s finally decided to rejoin the land of the living.”
The smooth, silky voice came from the shadows near the fireplace.
I flinched, straining against the ropes as a tall figure stepped out into the amber glow of a floor lamp. He was wearing an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, a gold signet ring glistening on his pinky finger. Silver-streaked dark hair, sharp aristocratic features, and a smile that didn't reach his cold, predatory eyes.
Julian Moretti.
Vincent Moretti’s younger brother and the financial mastermind of the Moretti syndicate.
“Julian,” I choked out, my throat feeling like sandpaper. I swallowed hard, trying to summon whatever courage I had left. “Where am I?”
Julian chuckled softly, walking over to a mahogany bar cart and pouring himself two fingers of amber liquid. He took a slow sip before turning back to look at me, his gaze dropping deliberately to my stomach.
“You’re in one of my family’s old safehouses along the river, Alina,” Julian said, his tone conversational, almost polite. “Quite cozy, isn't it? Though I must admit, your husband has terrible taste in parking garages. The amount of property damage he caused tonight is frankly appalling.”
“Where is Dorian?” I demanded, glaring at him through the haze of pain. “What did you do to him?”
Julian’s smile widened, though it remained chillingly devoid of warmth. “Oh, don't worry about your dear husband. Right now, Mr. Cross is probably tearing the city apart, hunting for you like a rabid dog. He always was so terribly dramatic when things didn't go his way.”
“If you touch him—”
“If I touch him?” Julian interrupted, laughing lightly. He set his glass down on the desk and walked slowly toward me, stopping just a few feet away. He leaned down, resting his hands on the arms of my chair, invading my personal space with the reek of expensive cologne and danger. “Alina, sweet, naive Alina. You still don't understand what’s happening here, do you? You think this is just a turf war between rival businessmen. You think Dorian left you six months ago because he fell out of love.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What are you talking about?”
Julian reached out, his long fingers gently—mockingly—brushing a stray lock of hair away from my forehead. I flinched away from his touch like I had been burned.
“Dorian didn't leave you to protect you from me,” Julian whispered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “He left you because he knew I was watching. He knew that the moment my brother found out he had a weakness—a sweet, vulnerable little art historian wife—we would use you to break him.”
“That’s a lie,” I spat out, though my voice trembled.
“Is it?” Julian straightened up, stepping back and pulling a folded manila folder from the desk behind him. He flipped it open, tossing a series of glossy photographs onto my lap.
I looked down. My breath hitched in my throat.
Photos of me. Walking out of my art gallery on Michigan Avenue. Sitting at a corner table in the little Italian bistro on Oak Street. Sleeping in my bed in our old apartment, illuminated by the streetlights outside.
Every single photo was timestamped within the last six months.
“Dorian knew you were being watched every single day,” Julian continued, his voice dripping with venom. “He knew that if he stayed in the house with you, if he slept in the same bed, our surveillance would catch onto the connection. So he staged a breakup. He played the cold, distant corporate husband, filed for a quiet divorce, and moved into his downtown office—all to keep you alive.”
I stared at the photographs, the room spinning around me.
Everything Dorian had said in the hospital—*I was trying to protect you. As long as my enemies believed you meant nothing to me, you were safe.*—wasn't a lie.
It was the absolute, agonizing truth.
“But then,” Julian said, his voice darkening as he stepped closer again, “something unexpected happened. Something neither Dorian nor my brother anticipated.”
He reached out, his hand hovering just an inch above my stomach.
I instinctively tried to twist away, pressing my back as hard as I could against the wooden chair.
“A baby,” Julian whispered, a dark, triumphant glint shining in his eyes. “Dorian’s bloodline. The heir to the Cross empire. And the ultimate leverage to force him to sign over every single shipping route, every warehouse, and every asset he owns to the Moretti family.”
He leaned down until his lips were nearly touching my ear.
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“So tell me, Alina… when Dorian walks through that door to trade his entire empire for your life, will he be thanking you for the child you're carrying, or cursing the day he ever met you?”
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