Chapter 3 - The Bruise on the Mirror
Morning arrived over Lake Michigan in shades of pale blue and gold.
I woke up in a massive king-sized bed wrapped in 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. The guest suite of Victor’s penthouse was larger than my entire former apartment. On a valet stand near the bathroom hung a tailored ivory silk blouse, black wool trousers, and a pair of leather pumps—all brand new, in my exact sizes.
I stepped into the en-suite marble bathroom, turning on the warm water.
I slipped out of the ruined silver evening gown and stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
The harsh morning light hid nothing. There, along my ribcage, were two dark purple, sickening contusions where Derek had shoved me into the sharp corner of his mahogany desk four days ago. On my shoulder blade sat a yellowish blotch from a month prior. And on my lower back, right where Derek’s fingers had dug in during the gala, was a fresh set of dark red finger marks.
I touched the marks softly, a silent tear escaping my eye. For three years, I had convinced myself that this was my normal. That if I smiled more, if I complied faster, if I managed the household better, Derek would change.
A soft knock at the bedroom door startled me out of my thoughts.
"Lena?" Victor’s deep voice echoed through the wood. "Breakfast is ready. And we have an urgent situation."
I quickly pulled on a plush white robe from the door rack and opened the bedroom door.
Victor stood in the hallway, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit without a tie. His dark hair was slightly messy, and his phone was pressed against his palm. When his eyes caught mine, his expression immediately softened, but his jaw remained tight.
"What's wrong?" I asked, stepping into the hallway.
"Derek Hail didn't go to the hospital last night," Victor said cleanly, leading me toward the dining room where a spread of fresh fruit, pastries, and coffee waited. "He went straight to the media. And then he went to the police."
My blood ran cold. "The police?"
Victor pulled a tablet from the table and handed it to me.
The screen was displaying the front page of the Chicago Sun-Times. A massive headline blared in bold red letters:
MAFIA BOSS KIDNAPS HEIRESS: DEREK HAIL OFFERS $5 MILLION REWARD FOR RETURN OF FIANCÉE LENA MARLO.
Below the headline was a photo of Derek sitting in a press conference room, his left wrist wrapped in a thick white cast, looking pale, tragic, and utterly convincing as a devastated husband-to-be. Beside him sat his father, Richard Hail, surrounded by three high-ranking Chicago Police Department detectives.
"Victor Salvatore brutally assaulted me and snatched my fiancée against her will from a public charity event," Derek’s quoted statement read. "Lena is being held hostage in his penthouse. I will burn every dock in this city to bring her home."
I dropped the tablet onto the table, my hands trembling violently. "He’s twisting everything. He’s going to use the police to raid this building! They’ll arrest you, Victor!"
"The CPD doesn't have the courage to step foot into this building without a federal warrant, which they won't get," Victor said calmly, pouring me a cup of hot black coffee. "However, Derek has maneuvered effectively in the public eye. By framing this as a kidnapping, he’s forcing my family's council to question my judgment."
"Your council?"
"The five families of Chicago," Victor explained, sitting down across from me. "They don't care about love, Lena. They care about stability and profit. Derek's father, Richard, has already requested an emergency commission meeting for tonight. He’s demanding my removal as Don for 'instigating an unsanctioned war over a civilian woman.'"
I sank into a chair, burying my face in my hands. "This is my fault. I brought this nightmare to your doorstep. If I just go back to him—"
"No."
The word was so sharp, so absolute, it cut through the room like a gunshot.
I looked up. Victor had stood up from his chair. He walked around the table, stopping beside me. Without saying a word, he reached down, his long fingers gently untying the belt of my robe and pulling the fabric open just enough to expose my shoulder and the dark purple bruises along my ribs.
His breath hitched. The air in the dining room instantly dropped ten degrees.
Victor stared at the marks on my body, his storm-gray eyes flashing with a terrifying, apocalyptic fury that made every hair on my arms stand up. The veins along his neck bulged; his hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides.
"He did this to you," Victor whispered, his voice trembling with sheer, unadulterated rage.
"Victor... please," I stammered, covering myself quickly.
May you like
Victor closed his eyes, taking three deep, controlled breaths until he forced the lethal storm back behind his mask of stone. When he opened his eyes again, he looked at me with an intensity that made my chest ache.
"You are never going back to him, Lena," Victor swore softly. "Tonight, I go before the commission. And I am going to end the Hail family once and for all."
