Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of ShadowsThe realization hit me with the force of a freight train.
For three years, being Ethan Blackwood’s wife had been a gilded cage, but it had also been an impenetrable shield. No rival gang, no disgruntled debtor, and no ambitious assassin would ever dare touch me because the retaliation from Ethan would have been apocalyptic.
The moment our divorce became final, that shield evaporated.
To the brutal, cutthroat underworld of New York organized crime, I was no longer the untouchable queen of the syndicate. I was a loose end. A vulnerable civilian who knew entirely too many secrets about offshore bank accounts, shipping manifests, and safe houses.
"Who?" I whispered, my voice trembling as the cold autumn wind cut through my coat. "Dante... who left the picture?"
Dante shook his head slowly, his jaw tight. "We don't know yet. Could be Viktor’s men looking to settle a score from the dock expansion in Queens. Could be a rogue faction within our own ranks trying to test Ethan’s focus. Either way, the boss went ballistic when he saw that photo."
"And where is Ethan now?"
"Locked in his warehouse office in Brooklyn," Dante replied bitterly. "Drinking scotch, burning through cigars, and tearing his own operation apart looking for whoever breached his security."
I looked down instinctively, my hand pressing flat against my lower stomach.
Deep inside my body, cradled in absolute safety for now, was Ethan’s child. If enemies were already tracking my movements, waiting for an opportunity to strike at Ethan through me, my pregnancy wasn't just a personal secret anymore. It was a ticking time bomb.
If anyone found out I was carrying the next heir to the Blackwood dynasty, I wouldn't just be a target.
I’d be hunted.
"Dante," I said, my voice suddenly clearing of all panic, replaced by an eerie, resolute calm. "Take me to him."
Dante blinked in surprise. "To Ethan? Are you sure? You just spent the last six months fighting to get away from him."
"That was before I knew someone had a crosshairs painted on my back," I retorted sharply. "If I go back to my apartment now, I'm a sitting duck. If I'm going to survive whatever war is brewing, I need to know what game we're playing."
Dante studied my face for a long moment, recognizing the stubborn glint in my eyes that he had seen mirror Ethan’s so many times over the years. Slowly, he nodded and gestured toward the black sedan.
"Get in, Emma. Let's go see the devil."
The drive across the bridge into Brooklyn was silent. The city skyline blurred behind a veil of gray mist as Dante navigated the industrial labyrinth of warehouses lining the East River.
We pulled up to a monolithic, windowless brick building bearing the innocuous sign of an import-export logistics firm. Heavy iron gates slid open automatically as Dante flashed his security credentials, and we descended into a subterranean parking garage lit by flickering fluorescent tubes.
Dante escorted me through a heavy steel security door, down a narrow concrete corridor, and up a flight of metal stairs that led to Ethan’s private loft office.
The room smelled of rich mahogany, expensive bourbon, and the heavy, earthy smoke of a Cuban cigar.
Ethan was standing with his back to the door, staring out a massive reinforced glass window that overlooked the Brooklyn Navy Yard. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the dark, intricate tattoos of traditional Italian mob heritage wrapping around his muscular forearms. His broad shoulders were tense, carved like marble under his shirt.
He didn't turn around as the door clicked shut behind us.
"I told you to keep your distance, Dante," Ethan’s voice cut through the room like a razor—deep, cold, and laced with suppressed violence. "If she catches you hovering around her again, I'll break your jaw."
"She didn't catch me, boss," Dante said quietly. "She found me. And she insisted on coming here."
Slowly, Ethan turned around.
May you like
When his dark, piercing eyes locked onto mine, the air seemed to vanish from the room. For a fraction of a second, raw, unfiltered shock flashed across his handsome face, quickly replaced by that impenetrable, mask-like control.
"Emma," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Related Stories
