Chapter 4 - Behind the Iron GatesThe Marino estate in Lincoln Park was less of a house and more of a heavily fortified limestone fortress surrounded by twelve-foot brick walls, motion-activated security cameras, and armed guards patrolling the perimeter with German Shepherds.
When Dante’s black Escalade rolled through the massive wrought-iron gates, I pressed my forehead against the cool passenger window, staring out at the sprawling, manicured gardens and the grand gothic architecture of the main house.
“You live here all by yourself?” I asked, breaking the silence as Dante cut the engine in the circular driveway.
“Bruno and Viktor live in the guest quarters out back,” Dante said, opening my door before I could reach for the handle. “And a housekeeping staff comes in twice a week. Otherwise... yes.”
“It’s big,” I murmured, stepping out into the crisp evening air. “Feels a bit like a mausoleum.”
Dante stopped, his hand resting on the heavy oak front door. A shadow crossed his face—dark, sharp, and painful. “It was supposed to be a family home. Clara designed the west wing herself.”
The mention of his late wife hung in the air like a ghost. I looked up at him, seeing the profound, lingering sorrow that he kept locked behind his ruthless exterior. For nine years, the estate had been a shrine to grief.
And now he had brought his exhausted, sarcastic secretary inside its walls.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Marino,” I said softly. “I shouldn't have said that.”
“No,” Dante said, unlocking the door and pushing it open, revealing a grand foyer lit by a massive crystal chandelier. “You’re honest, Emily. That’s why you’re still breathing.”
He led me up a sweeping curved staircase to the second floor, down a long hallway lined with dark wood paneling, and opened the door to a spacious guest suite decorated in soothing shades of cream, navy, and gold. A plush queen-sized bed, a private en-suite marble bathroom, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the illuminated gardens made my tiny studio apartment in Uptown look like a prison cell.
“Your clothes from your office locker will be brought up by Bruno tomorrow,” Dante said, standing in the doorway. “There’s fresh pajamas in the dresser. Lock your door from the inside. If you hear anything during the night—anything at all—don't investigate. Call my room extension directly.”
“And what if someone tries to break in?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dante reached inside his jacket, pulled out a small, sleek snub-nosed revolver, and placed it neatly on the nightstand beside the lamp.
“If someone gets past the perimeter walls, the guard dogs, and Bruno, use this,” Dante said calmly. “Aim for the chest, pull the trigger, and let me handle the cleanup.”
He turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
I stood in the center of the luxurious bedroom, staring at the gun on the nightstand, then at my phone. I dialed Leo’s Evanston facility.
“Hi, this is Emily Davies checking in on Leo’s evening medication schedule,” I said when the nurse picked up.
“Everything is stable, Miss Davies,” the nurse replied cheerfully. “He had a great day in art therapy. Painted a very nice watercolor of a red truck.”
“Thank you. Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow evening.”
I hung up, feeling a warm tear slip down my cheek. I was living in a mob boss’s fortress, dodging assassination threats from rival syndicates, and arguing with IRS auditors. But Leo had painted a red truck.
That was all that mattered.
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I changed into the silk pajamas left in the dresser, locked the door, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep for the first time in months.
Little did I know, outside the fortress walls, Dominic Rossi was already setting a trap that would test whether Dante Marino’s empire—and his fragile new heart—could survive the night.
