Chapter 2 - Shadows of the Past“Who is she?”
The words slipped past my lips before I could stop them, barely louder than a whisper, but in the oppressive quiet of the restaurant, they sounded like a gunshot.
Julian didn't answer immediately. He remained frozen, his massive frame half-turned toward the bar, his dark eyes darting between the tarnished brass frame and my pale face. The baby, safely nestled against my apron, let out a tiny yawn and drifted into a peaceful sleep, completely oblivious to the psychic earthquake shaking the room.
“Boss,” one of the bodyguards murmured, stepping closer, his hand still hovering near his holster. “We need to go. It’s getting crowded.”
Julian held up a single, commanding hand, silencing his man without looking away from me. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his weight forward, resting his forearms on the sticky mahogany table. Up close, the scar across his cheek seemed to pulse under the dim restaurant lighting, lending him an aura of lethal, predatory intensity.
“Put him down, Elina,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a register that brook no argument, yet carried a strange, trembling undertone.
“I... I can't,” I whispered, looking down at the sleeping infant whose tiny fingers were still tightly knotted around my thumb. “If I move, he’ll wake up.”
A muscle twitched in Julian’s jaw. He reached out, his large, calloused fingers gently wrapping around my wrist. His skin was burning hot, sending a jolt of electric current straight up my arm. For a second, I thought he was going to wrench me away, to tear his son from my arms and storm out into the rainy New York night.
Instead, his thumb brushed softly over my pulse point, feeling it hammer wildly against my skin.
“You have her eyes,” Julian breathed, his voice scraping raw against his throat. “And her voice. God help me, you even smell like her.”
“Who?” I demanded, panic overriding my survival instincts. I tried to pull my arm back, but his grip, though gentle, was an anchor of solid steel. “Who am I supposed to look like? Mr. Orelio bought this place ten years ago from some old family! I don't know any dead women in black dresses!”
“Elena,” Julian whispered, the name falling from his lips like a prayer and a curse combined. “Elena Vance. My wife.”
The restaurant seemed to tilt on its axis. My knees wobbled so violently that I would have hit the floor if the edge of the booth hadn't caught my hip.
“Your... your wife?” I choked out. “Wait—no. That’s impossible. My name is Elina Valdez. With an i. I grew up in Queens with a single mother who worked herself to the bone in a laundromat until her heart gave out three years ago! I don't have any connection to the mob, I don't have money, and I certainly wasn't married to a terrifying criminal!”
Julian’s dark gaze narrowed, flashing with a sudden, dangerous intensity. He didn't look convinced by my frantic denial; if anything, the puzzle pieces in his mind were clicking into place with horrifying speed.
“Elena died in a car explosion four years ago,” Julian said flatly, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Or at least, that’s what the wreckage and the dental records led the authorities to believe. Her body was never recovered. The car was driven off the cliffs near Montauk, incinerated beyond recognition.”
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. “Are you out of your mind? You think I’m some kind of ghost? Or an imposter?”
“No,” Julian murmured, standing up slowly from the booth. He towered over me, a dark mountain of controlled fury and unresolved grief. “A ghost doesn't have a heartbeat that matches the rhythm my son responds to. And an imposter wouldn't have a birthmark shaped like a crescent moon right behind her left ear.”
My blood ran instantly ice cold.
Behind my left ear.
I had never told a single soul about that birthmark. It was hidden beneath my hair, a secret little crescent of darker skin I had tried to scrub away with soap when I was a kid, thinking it was a stain.
Before I could process the sheer impossibility of what he was saying, the front door of the restaurant chimed violently.
Three men in dark leather jackets burst through the entrance, their hoods pulled low over their brows. The one in the lead didn't look like a customer; he looked like a hunter, and his hand was already sliding inside his coat.
Julian’s reflexes were terrifying. In less than a second, he spun around, shoved me back against the safety of the booth, and drew his Sig Sauer pistol with blinding speed, firing two deafening shots into the front glass before the intruders could even raise their weapons.
Chaos erupted.
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Screams tore through the dining room as customers dove under tables. Glass shattered like crystal shrapnel, raining down across the floor.
“Get down!” Julian roared, grabbing me by the waist and pulling both me and his sleeping son beneath the heavy wooden table as return fire chewed through the exterior wall, sending splinters flying everywhere.
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