Chapter 4 - THE GUEST SUITE AT THE GRAND HOTEL
The penthouse suite at the Moretti Grand Hotel was larger than the entire house I grew up in.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering Chicago skyline, the rain painting abstract streaks across the glass. The air smelled of clean linen and faint, expensive cedar.
Caleb had fallen asleep almost the second his head hit the pillow in the adjoining guest room, completely exhausted by the emotional whiplash of the night.
I stood by the massive windows in the main living area, clutching a mug of hot tea Marco had quietly brought up. I had showered and changed into a plush white hotel robe, the hot water washing away the physical chill of the warehouse, but my mind was still racing.
Everything I thought I knew about my life, my mother, and my future had been a lie.
The soft click of the suite door opening made me jump.
Alessandro walked in. He had changed out of his ruined suit and was wearing dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt. Without the tailored jacket and silk tie, he looked less like a mafia boss and more like a devastatingly handsome, incredibly tired man.
He stopped when he saw me by the window.
“I thought you’d be asleep,” Alessandro said quietly, walking over to the small wet bar to pour himself a glass of water.
“I’m too wired,” I admitted, wrapping my hands tightly around the warm mug. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Brandon’s face when he realized he was caught.”
Alessandro walked over and stood a respectful distance away, leaning against the window frame. He looked out at the city, his profile sharp against the city lights.
“Betrayal from someone you love is a difficult poison to flush out of your system,” Alessandro said softly, his voice carrying the heavy weight of personal experience.
I looked at him, remembering the cold, decisive way he had exiled his own uncle.
“Does it ever get easier?” I asked.
Alessandro turned his dark eyes to me. “No. But it makes you fiercely protective of the people who actually deserve your loyalty.”
He hesitated for a moment, then reached into his pocket.
“I have something for you,” he said.
He held out his hand. Resting in his palm was the small, silver heart locket. My mother’s necklace.
“My men removed the microfiche film with the routing numbers,” Alessandro explained gently. “The accounts have been frozen. But the necklace belongs to you.”
I felt a sudden, sharp ache in my chest. I reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the locket. The metal was cool against my skin. It was the only thing of my mother’s I had left that hadn't been tainted by Brandon’s lies.
“Thank you,” I whispered, clutching it to my chest, fresh tears welling in my eyes. “I thought I’d lost it forever.”
“You didn't lose it, Jessica,” Alessandro said, his voice dropping into a low, comforting register. “You just had to fight to get it back.”
He reached out, his large, tattooed hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently wiping a tear from my cheek. His touch was incredibly warm, his thumb calloused but unbelievably gentle.
I didn't pull away. I leaned slightly into his touch, my heart doing a strange, frantic flutter that had nothing to do with fear.
For a long moment, the silence in the penthouse was thick and electric. He was looking at me not as a problem to be solved, or a victim to be saved, but as a woman.
“Alessandro,” I breathed, the name feeling strange but right on my tongue.
Before he could answer, the silence was shattered by the sharp, urgent buzzing of his cell phone.
Alessandro cursed softly in Italian, dropping his hand from my face. He pulled the phone from his pocket, his expression hardening instantly as he read the caller ID.
“Marco,” Alessandro answered, the warmth in his voice vanishing completely.
I watched him listen. His jaw tightened, the muscles ticking rapidly. The mafia boss mask slammed back into place with terrifying speed.
“Are you certain?” Alessandro demanded, his voice turning to ice.
He listened for another ten seconds, then hung up the phone. He didn't look at me. He stared out the window, a dark, violent storm brewing in his eyes.
“What is it?” I asked, panic instantly returning to my chest. “Is it Victor? Did he not get on the plane?”
“Victor is on a plane over the Atlantic,” Alessandro said grimly, turning to face me. “The problem is Brandon.”
“Brandon?” I frowned, confused. “You let him go. You said he wasn't your problem anymore.”
“He wasn't,” Alessandro agreed, his voice tight. “But Marco just found him. He’s in the alley behind my restaurant. Dead.”
My breath caught in my throat. I stumbled back a step, the mug of tea shaking in my hands. “Dead? You killed him?”
“No,” Alessandro said sharply, his eyes flashing with frustration. “I gave you my word I wouldn't touch him, and I meant it. But someone else didn't want him talking.”
“Who?” I asked, my mind spinning.
Alessandro walked over to the coffee table and picked up his leather jacket.
“The police found a note pinned to his chest,” Alessandro said, pulling the jacket on. “It was addressed to me.”
He looked at me, a profound, terrifying urgency in his gaze.
“It said, The boy is not the only one with an inheritance, Moretti.”
I stared at him, uncomprehending. “What does that mean?”
“It means Victor wasn't working alone,” Alessandro deduced, his mind working with lethal speed. “He didn't just steal the money; he promised it to someone else. A rival family. And now that the money is frozen, they are tying up loose ends. Brandon was the first.”
He walked toward the door, checking the magazine of his pistol.
“Where are you going?” I cried, suddenly terrified of being left alone in the massive suite.
“I have to find out who Victor sold us out to before they realize Caleb is still alive and breathing,” Alessandro said, his hand on the doorknob.
He turned back to look at me. The fierce, uncompromising protectiveness in his eyes was blinding.
“Lock this door, Jessica,” Alessandro commanded softly. “Do not let anyone in unless it’s me or Marco. I will be back before sunrise.”
He stepped out into the hallway, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the ghosts of my past and the terrifying reality of my present.
I walked over to the door, throwing the deadbolt with a heavy, final clack.
I turned back to the quiet room, clutching my mother’s locket so tightly the silver dug into my palm. I was safe. Caleb was safe. But the war hadn't ended; it had only just begun.
And as I looked out the window at the dark, sprawling city, I realized with absolute certainty that the man I was waiting to come back wasn't just a savior anymore.
He was everything.
I didn't sleep that night. I sat in the armchair by the window, watching the rain turn to a gray, muted dawn.
Just as the sun began to peek over the lake, the sharp buzz of the intercom echoed through the suite.
I jumped up, my heart hammering, and ran to the door.
“Who is it?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.
“It’s Marco, Miss Morgan,” the gruff voice answered through the speaker.
I threw open the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
Marco stood in the hallway, looking exhausted, his suit rumpled. But he wasn't alone.
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Standing behind him, looking pale and terrified, holding a thick, manila envelope, was the last person I ever expected to see.
It was my mother’s former oncology nurse.
