Chapter 3 - The Order of Protection
The offices of Sterling & Vance, Family Law, occupied the thirty-second floor of a limestone tower on LaSalle Street. The waiting room smelled of imported leather and expensive floor wax.
Valentina sat in a wingback chair, wearing the green silk dress Luca had had Marta deliver, her bruised cheek hidden beneath a wide-brimmed wool hat she had borrowed from Carla’s closet. Luca sat across from her, reading a dossier on municipal development bonds with the absolute focus of a man who could dismantle a city's infrastructure before lunch.
The door to the inner office opened, and Attorney Rachel Vance stepped out. She was a tall, sharp-featured woman in her late forties with wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of tailored pantsuit that suggested she had won every argument she had ever participated in.
"Mr. Ferrante. Ms. Cruz," she said, holding the door wide. "Please come in."
They entered an office with sweeping views of the Chicago River. Rachel Vance motioned them to sit, then closed the door behind them with a firm click. She sat behind her desk, opened a leather-bound folder, and looked directly at Valentina.
"Mr. Ferrante's office briefed me on the situation at 7:00 a.m.," Rachel said, her voice crisp and efficient. "We have prepared an emergency petition for an Order of Protection, including a stay-away mandate for Mr. Reynolds's residence, place of employment, and any location within five hundred feet of Ms. Cruz. Furthermore, we have filed an injunction freezing the joint checking and savings accounts pending a full forensic audit of marital asset dissipation."
Valentina blinked. "That fast?"
"When Mr. Ferrante calls, things move with a certain... architectural efficiency," Rachel said dryly, glancing sideways at Luca, who hadn't looked up from his tablet. "Additionally, we have documented the medical notes from Dr. Adessa, along with the photographs of your injuries. If Mr. Reynolds violates the order by even so much as a text message, he will be spending forty-eight hours in Cook County Jail before he has time to retain counsel."
"Will he be served today?" Luca asked, his voice flat.
"By noon," Rachel confirmed. "Enzo has already provided the sheriff's process server with Mr. Reynolds's exact location—he is currently attempting to access his studio in the West Loop."
Valentina felt a cold knot in her stomach tighten, then slowly begin to dissolve. For six months, Marco had made her feel as though he was everywhere—in her phone, in her head, watching her movements even when he wasn't in the room. The idea of a piece of paper backed by the full weight of the state—and enforced by Luca Ferrante’s quiet infrastructure—was the first real breath she had taken in years.
"Thank you, Rachel," Luca said, standing up and extending a hand across the desk.
"It's my professional pleasure, Mr. Ferrante," the lawyer said, shaking his hand firmly. She turned her gaze to Valentina. "Ms. Cruz, you are safe now. Let the legal system do its work. And if it fails, well... I understand Mr. Ferrante has excellent alternatives."
A faint, ghostly smile touched Luca’s mouth. "We prefer the legal system, Rachel. It leaves less mess."
When they stepped back out onto LaSalle Street, the snow had stopped, leaving the pavement slushy and gray under a pale afternoon sun. Enzo was waiting by the curb with the Maybach, holding the rear door open.
As Valentina slid into the leather interior, her phone—which Luca had turned back on ten minutes prior—buzzed violently in her bag.
She pulled it out.
Thirty new text messages from Marco.
What the hell is this? Some sheriff just served me papers. Val, open the door. Who is this lawyer? You think you can hide behind some high-priced firm? You're destroying our life over a stupid argument. I'm outside your office right now. The receptionist says you quit. Where are you? Val. Answer me.
Then, a photograph.
It was taken from the sidewalk across the street from the LaSalle Street building. Through the tinted glass of the Maybach, the camera had captured Enzo opening the door for her, and behind him, Luca stepping out onto the pavement.
Who is that? Marco texted below the photo. Is that who this is about? Is that why you left?
Valentina stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the block button.
Luca, sitting beside her in the quiet cabin of the car, reached over and gently took the phone from her fingers. He looked at the screen—at Marco’s frantic messages, at the blurry photograph of them standing on the pavement.
"Shall I reply?" Luca asked quietly.
"What would you say?" she asked, her breath catching.
Luca’s thumb moved across the screen with terrifying speed. He typed a single sentence, hit send, and then powered the phone down completely, tossing it into the glove compartment.
"What did you type?" she whispered.
"I told him," Luca said, turning to look at her with eyes as cold and steady as winter steel, "that if he ever takes a photograph of you again, he won't have hands to hold the camera."
May you like
Valentina didn't speak all the way back to Dearborn Street.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching the city blur past, feeling the terrifying, beautiful weight of a life that was finally, irrevocably her own—and the dangerous, magnificent man who had built a wall around it.
