My husband forgot our fifth anniversary and spent it kissing another woman in his private office while the dinner I carried across Chicago fell from my hands

**LENA**

Four months passed.

Whispering Bay, Maine, did not care about the Morettis.

Here, the only empire was the North Atlantic. The wind howled off the water, freezing the sea spray into crystalline sheets across the wooden pilings of the docks. The locals were weathered men and women who judged a person by whether they could handle a snow shovel and keep their word.

I had rented a small, cedar-shingled cottage on the bluffs, paying six months of rent upfront in cash under the name Elena Brooks.

The town assumed I was a young widow. In a way, I was. The man I had married—the boy with fierce eyes who had promised to protect me from the world when we were twenty-one—was dead. In his place stood Dante Moretti, the kingpin of Chicago, a monster who wore five-thousand-dollar suits to hide his claws.

My belly had rounded drastically. By twenty-two weeks, carrying twins made me look as though I were in my third trimester.

Every morning, the movements began: tiny, distinct flutters that had now turned into decisive kicks. One baby favored my right ribcage; the other tucked low against my left hip.

"Easy, you two," I whispered, resting both hands on my swollen stomach as I stood by the kitchen window, watching the snow drift against the glass. "There’s plenty of room. Don't fight."

I wore thick wool sweaters, leggings, and heavy socks. I worked remotely, drafting architectural layouts for an independent restoration firm based in Portland. I had always been an architect before Dante convinced me that being his wife was a full-time occupation. Returning to the blueprints, the clean mathematical lines, felt like reclaiming pieces of my soul that I had left in the gutters of Chicago.

A knock sounded at the cottage door.

My heart seized. It was an involuntary reaction that hadn't faded; every unexpected sound made my throat close with the terror that Dante’s black SUVs had finally rolled up the gravel path.

I grabbed the heavy brass poker from beside the cast-iron stove before approaching the door.

"Who is it?" I called through the wood.

"It’s Martha, dear! And I brought chowder before the blizzard hits!"

I let out a shaky breath and leaned the poker against the wall. I unlocked the heavy deadbolt and opened the door.

Martha was seventy, with cheeks like winter apples and hands that could clean a cod in forty seconds flat. She bustled in, wrapped in an enormous plaid parka, carrying a steaming mason jar wrapped in a kitchen towel.

"Lord above, Elena, you get bigger every time I see you," Martha declared, stomping the snow from her boots onto the braided rug. "Are you sure that sweet doctor in Bangor didn't miss a third one in there?"

I smiled, taking the warm jar from her hands. "Just two, Martha. I promise."

"Well, you need to eat. You’re all belly and cheekbones." She unbuttoned her coat and peered at me critically. "You look tired, child. The shadows under your eyes are darker than the storm clouds."

"The babies are active at night," I deflected gently, setting the chowder on the counter. "It’s hard to find a comfortable position to sleep."

It wasn't just the babies. It was the dreams.

Almost every night, Dante found me. In the dreams, he wasn't screaming. He wasn't the terrifying warlord who commanded hundreds of armed men. In the dreams, he was kneeling in the snow outside my cottage, his hands bleeding from clawing at the frozen earth, begging me to let him touch my stomach just once.

I would wake up drenched in sweat, my hands covering my belly, gasping for breath while the wind rattled the windowpanes.

"Here," Martha said, thrusting a folded newspaper onto my counter. "Brought you yesterday’s paper from Portland. Thought you might want something to read while the power’s out tonight. They’re predicting four feet of snow."

"Thank you, Martha. You’re too good to me."

"Nonsense. A girl in your condition shouldn't be alone in this godforsaken weather. You sure that husband of yours didn't leave any family behind? No cousins? No brothers who could come chop your wood?"

"No," I said, my voice hardening slightly. "There’s no one. It’s just me and them."

Martha saw the wall drop behind my eyes and gently patted my shoulder. "You’re a tough one, Elena. But remember, asking for help isn't weakness. It’s just survival."

After Martha left, the cottage settled back into its heavy silence.

I heated the chowder on the small gas burner, ate slowly, and then absentmindedly unfolded the Portland paper on the kitchen table.

My eyes skimmed the front page—local politics, a lobstering dispute, road closures—and then flipped to the national wire.

My heart stopped.

The spoon slipped from my fingers, splashing chowder onto the pine table.

**BLOODBATH IN CHICAGO: ROSSI CRIME FAMILY HEADQUARTERS DESTROYED IN SYSTEMATIC STRIKE.**

I grabbed the paper with both hands, my eyes tearing through the print.

*“...A coordinated assault that federal authorities are calling unprecedented in scale. Matteo Rossi, long-standing head of the northern syndicate, was found dead alongside four top lieutenants at an industrial compound near Lake Calumet. Authorities have declined to name suspects, though law enforcement sources confirm the operation bears the hallmarks of Moretti Enterprises’ private security apparatus. Sources close to the Moretti organization report that Dante Moretti has completely restructured his operations, eliminating external contractors and consolidating absolute control over Chicago’s logistics corridors...”*

There was another photograph.

Dante walking out of a federal courthouse where he had evidently been questioned and released without charges.

He was thinner. Dangerously thin. His cheekbones were sharp blades beneath his sallow skin. But his eyes were terrifying. The restrained, calculating businessman was gone. The man in that photo was an apex predator who had stopped pretending to be civilized.

The article quoted an anonymous business associate: *“Moretti isn't running a business anymore. He’s running a manhunt. He’s burned every bridge, crushed every competitor who stepped out of line, and he hasn't slept in four months. He acts like a man who has already lost his soul and doesn't care whose blood he has to wade through to get it back.”*

I dropped the paper.

A sharp, sudden pain seized my lower abdomen—a tight, crushing contraction that pulled the air straight out of my throat.

"Ah!" I gasped, doubling over the table, clutching my stomach.

The babies kicked wildly, as if sensing the electric wave of panic shooting through my nervous system.

"Calm down," I commanded myself, gripping the edge of the wood until my knuckles turned white. "Breathe. Just breathe. He doesn't know where you are. He’s in Chicago. He’s hundreds of miles away. Breathe."

The contraction lasted sixty seconds—long, agonizing seconds that felt like the beginning of an unraveling. Then, slowly, the muscle released its iron grip.

I sank onto the wooden bench, shaking from head to foot.

Dante hadn't given up. He hadn't retreated into the arms of Sofia Vale or any of the dozens of women who would gladly fill the vacuum I left behind.

He was burning the world down.