Chapter 2 - The Trap on the TerraceThe crisp autumn air of Michigan Avenue hit my skin like ice water as Derek dragged me past the heavy glass doors and onto the secluded section of the hotel terrace. The ambient noise of the gala faded into a dull, distant murmur, swallowed by the roar of late-night city traffic far below.
There were no cameras here. No witnesses. No powerful men in black suits to act as an unexpected shield.
Derek shoved me against the cold stone balustrade, the impact driving the remaining breath from my lungs. The silver gown rustled softly against the masonry as I slid slightly downward, looking up into his dilated, furious eyes.
"What the hell was that?" Derek snarled, slamming his palm against the stone right beside my head. "Did you plan this? Did you arrange to hook up with Salvatore behind my back to humiliate me?"
"No!" I cried out, pressing my palms flat against the cold marble to keep my balance. "Derek, I swear to God I’ve never seen him before in my life! You saw what happened! He just walked over—"
"Shut up!" Derek snapped, his hand shooting out to grab a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back so hard my neck screamed in agony. "You looked at him across the room! You invited him over with your little whore eyes! I give you a life, I give you a home, I put a diamond on your finger, and the second my back is turned, you practically beg a mobster to touch you?"
"Please, Derek... it hurts," I choked out, tears finally breaking free and tracking hot paths down my cheeks.
"It’s going to hurt a lot more when we get home," he whispered viciously, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. "You think you're clever, don't you? You think because you wear nice clothes and play the good little fiancée that you're safe? You belong to me, Lena. Every inch of you."
Suddenly, the heavy glass door behind us clicked open.
Derek froze, his hand still tangled in my hair. He whipped his head around, expecting a hotel employee or a wandering guest.
Instead, stepping out onto the terrace was not a guest. It was one of Victor Salvatore’s towering bodyguards. And right behind him, moving with absolute, unhurried grace, was Victor himself.
The night air grew instantly heavy.
Derek’s hand slackened on my hair, though he didn't immediately let go. He stared at the mob boss, his bravado rapidly dissolving into a pathetic, trembling mix of anger and fear.
"Salvatore," Derek stammered, trying to force his voice to sound steady. "This... this is a private conversation. My fiancée and I are having a personal moment."
Victor stopped three paces away. He didn't look at Derek. His piercing gray eyes were fixed entirely on me, taking in the tear tracks on my face, the rigid angle of my neck, and the way Derek’s fingers were still bunched in my hair.
"That’s strange, Mr. Hail," Victor said quietly, his voice cutting through the wind like a razor blade. "Because from where I was standing, it looked less like a personal moment, and more like a cowardly animal abusing a woman who deserves infinitely better than you."
Derek’s face drained of color entirely. "Step out of line, Salvatore, and you'll find out very quickly who has more influence in this city—"
Before Derek could finish the threat, Victor’s bodyguard moved with terrifying speed. In a fraction of a second, the large man crossed the distance, grabbed Derek’s wrist with a grip of iron, and twisted it downward with a sharp, brutal snap that elicited a shrill cry of agony from my fiancé.
Derek stumbled backward, clutching his broken pride and his throbbing wrist against his chest, glaring with pure, unadulterated murder in his eyes.
Victor stepped forward, standing directly in front of me. He reached out with a gentleness that contrasted violently with the brutal efficiency of his man, brushing a stray tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb.
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"Are you alright, Miss Marlo?" Victor asked, his voice softening just enough for only me to hear.
I looked up into his gray eyes, the sheer disbelief warring with the overwhelming wave of safety washing over me. For the first time in five years, someone had looked at the bruises hidden beneath my silver dress and actually decided to do something about it.
