Chapter 5 - Shadows in the Library
The east wing suite was larger than my entire apartment on the south side. It featured a king-sized canopy bed draped in heavy ivory silk, a marble fireplace with a crackling fire already burning in the hearth, and French doors opening onto a private balcony overlooking the dark, restless waters of Lake Michigan.
Yet, despite the luxury, sleep refused to come.
By 2:00 AM, my mind was racing. I paced across the plush rug, staring out at the moonlight glinting off the lake. I was trapped in a billionaire mobster's fortress, playing the role of a trophy wife to a man I had met twelve hours ago, while my five-year-old daughter was sleeping six miles away on Racine Avenue with my best friend.
I need to call Sarah, I thought, slipping out of the plush slippers provided by the staff and walking softly across the room.
My phone was in my coat pocket downstairs.
Quietly, I opened the heavy oak door of my suite and stepped out into the dimly lit corridor. The chateau was dead silent. Only the amber glow of wall-mounted nightlights illuminated the path back toward the grand foyer.
I tiptoed down the hall, turning the corner toward the stairs, when a faint glimmer of light caught my eye from a set of double doors left slightly ajar.
The library.
I paused, pressing my back against the wood-paneled wall. Through the gap in the doors, I saw Giovanni.
He had discarded his suit jacket and tie, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He was standing by a massive mahogany desk, reviewing a thick stack of manila folders under the harsh light of a green-shaded banker’s lamp.
Standing opposite him was Dante, the massive security guard who had opened the car door earlier that night.
"The shipment from Marseille was intercepted by the Moretti family's dockworkers in Gary," Dante reported, his voice tight and controlled. "They’re demanding a forty-percent tariff on all container transfers through the southern slip."
Giovanni didn't look up from the papers. He slowly reached down, picked up a heavy crystal glass of bourbon, and took a measured sip.
"Tell them no," Giovanni said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, flat register I had heard him use on Tyler Brooks.
"Boss, if we don't pay, they'll burn the warehouse on Eleventh Street," Dante warned. "And the police won't touch it; the precinct captain is on their payroll."
Giovanni set the glass down with a sharp, heavy clack that echoed across the vast library. He raised his dark eyes, and the sheer, unadulterated menace in his gaze made even Dante—a man built like a tank—stiffened his posture.
"Let them burn the warehouse," Giovanni said softly. "It's insured for three times its market value. And as for the precinct captain... have my legal team forward his offshore account numbers in the Cayman Islands to the FBI field office in Chicago by seven a.m. Let's see how much protection the Morettis can buy him when he's sitting in a federal holding cell."
Dante let out a slow, respectful breath. "Consider it done, boss."
"And Dante?"
"Yes?"
"Check the security perimeter around the east wing suite. Make sure nobody disturbs Mrs. Fierro."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I pressed myself flatter against the wall, holding my breath as Dante bowed slightly and headed toward the side exit of the library.
I waited until his heavy footsteps faded down the hall before I quietly slipped back toward my room, my mind spinning out of control.
I wasn't just playing house with a wealthy businessman. I was living inside the war room of a syndicate boss who casually destroyed police captains and burned warehouses before breakfast.
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And yet, as I crawled back into the cold ivory silk bed, the memory that lingered most wasn't the threat of the Moretti family or the coldness of the library.
It was the way Giovanni had said Mrs. Fierro—as if, for the first time in his dangerous, blood-soaked life, he actually meant it.
