Chapter 2 - The Sound of the DoorbellThe ride back to our secluded estate in Lincoln Park was a masterclass in suffocating silence.
The moment we walked through the front door, Derek didn't bother keeping up appearances. He threw his expensive suit jacket onto the entryway floor, grabbed me by the arm, and shoved me hard against the hallway wall.
The impact sent a white-hot spike of pain radiating across the old bruises on my ribs. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a cry.
“You are done,” Derek snarled, towering over me. “No more charity galas. No more stepping foot outside this house without my driver, without my permission, and without a chaperone. Until I figure out what game Victor Salvatore is playing, you are a prisoner in your own home.”
“A prisoner?” I echoed, my voice flat, devoid of the trembling compliance he was used to.
“Don't test me, Elena,” he warned, leaning in close until his breath hot and sour hit my face. “You think you’re clever? You think because some mafia king decided to make a public spectacle tonight that you have protection? Victor Salvatore doesn't save people. He destroys them. And if he’s using you to get to my real estate portfolio, you’ll be the first casualty.”
He turned on his heel, stormed up the grand staircase, and slammed our bedroom door so hard the chandelier in the foyer rattled.
A moment later, I heard the deadbolt click from the outside.
He had locked me in.
Just like he had done on rainy Tuesdays when I wanted to visit my mother. Just like he had done when I tried to register for a pottery class three blocks away.
I slid slowly down the hallway wall until I was sitting on the cold hardwood floor, pulling my knees up to my chest. In the quiet darkness of the foyer, the adrenaline finally began to recede, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep exhaustion.
My entire life was a gilded cage. My father had died leaving my mother in staggering debt; Derek had swept in like a white knight, paid off the debts, proposed with a diamond ring the size of a robin’s egg, and then slowly, systematically, cut away every single lifeline I possessed until I was entirely dependent on his mercy.
Except Derek didn't have mercy. He had possession.
“Let him see what he lost.”
Victor’s voice echoed in my mind again. Why would he say that? Who was Victor Salvatore, and why did he look at me with a recognition that felt older and deeper than a single glance across a ballroom?
Suddenly, a sharp, crisp sound cut through the silence of the house.
Ding-dong.
I froze.
The doorbell? At 11:45 PM? In a private, gated estate where solicitors were legally barred and guests never arrived uninvited?
Upstairs, the sound of Derek’s heavy footsteps stopped abruptly. A second later, his bedroom door flew open.
“Who the hell is at the door at this hour?” Derek muttered to himself, his voice carrying over the railing.
I heard him stomp down the stairs, cursing under his breath. He reached the foyer, looked down at me crumpled against the wall with a look of pure disgust, and stepped right over my legs.
“Stay right there,” he hissed.
Derek unlatched the heavy deadbolt and swung the mahogany front door wide open, ready to unleash his fury on whoever had dared disturb his paranoid sanctuary.
The words died in his throat.
Standing on our porch wasn't a late-night delivery driver or an unexpected guest.
It was Victor Salvatore.
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And standing directly behind him, holding a thick, leather-bound black briefcase, was a man who looked like a federal prosecutor.
“Mr. Hail,” Victor said, his voice smooth, quiet, and absolutely lethal. “I apologize for the late hour. But I believe we have some urgent business to discuss regarding your fiancée.”
