Chapter 4 - The Flight into the StormThe black armored SUV cut through the blinding Boston snowstorm with terrifying speed, its heavy tires gripping the slick highway like claws.
I sat huddled in the backseat, wedged between two silent, stone-faced security operatives whose tailored suits looked entirely out of place in a domestic rescue mission. My arms were wrapped protectively around my swollen belly, my breath hitching every time the vehicle lurched over an icy patch on the interstate.
They hadn't handcuffed me. They hadn't tied my hands. But the psychological cage surrounding me was inescapable.
“Where are you taking me?” I choked out, my voice raw from crying. “If Dominic sent you... tell him to leave me alone! Tell him I don't want his money, I don't want his protection, and I sure as hell don't want to be part of his mafia world!”
The agent in the front passenger seat turned his head slightly, his dark sunglasses reflecting the dim dashboard lights.
“You misunderstood everything, Miss Hayes,” he said quietly. “The wedding to Isabella Moretti was a sham. A political chess move designed to keep the Moretti family from looking into Dominic’s private life while he positioned our men to dismantle them from the inside out.”
I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. “A... a sham? I saw them! I heard them talking about the press release, the engagement party—”
“She was a pawn used to buy time,” the agent interrupted firmly. “The moment Dominic realized you walked in and heard that conversation—the moment he realized you vanished—he nearly tore his own headquarters apart. He didn't call you a civilian to dismiss you, Miss Hayes. He did it to protect you from assassins who would have butchered you in your sleep if they knew how much power you held over his heart.”
My mind raced, the pieces of a horrifying puzzle suddenly shifting into sharp, agonizing focus.
“She’s a civilian... Once the announcement goes public, she’ll be taken care of quietly.”
He hadn't meant murdered by his own hand. He had meant hidden away, shielded, kept safe from the crossfire while he waged a silent war to clear the board of his enemies.
And I had run. I had panicked, burned the only ultrasound of our baby, and plunged myself into a freezing, miserable exile in Boston.
“The baby...” I whispered, tears spilling over my lashes as I clutched my stomach. “He knows about the baby?”
“He found the charred remains of the ultrasound in the Chicago drainpipe three months ago,” the agent replied, his voice heavy with solemn respect. “When he saw what you had done... when he realized you thought you were erasing our future alone in the dark... I have never seen the Boss look like that. He would burn this entire country to ashes before he lets you slip away again.”
Fear and longing warred violently inside my chest. I wanted to run. I wanted to disappear into the snowstorm. But deep down, beneath the terror of the underworld and the ghosts of my past, a fierce, undeniable wave of relief washed over me.
He didn't hate me. He hadn't traded me for an elite mafia princess.
He was coming for us.
Before I could process the terrifying reality of what awaited me at the end of this journey, the SUV’s engine roared, exiting the highway and turning down a private, heavily guarded access road surrounded by towering iron gates.
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We had arrived at a sprawling, snow-covered private estate nestled deep in the wooded hills outside Chicago.
And waiting on the front steps, standing coatless in the freezing blizzard with the wind whipping his dark hair across his face, was Dominic Russo.
