Chapter 5 - A Threat in the Dark
The sting of antiseptic was sharp, cutting through the lingering smell of copper and gunpowder that seemed to have permanently settled into the fibers of my clothes.
I sat on the edge of a leather sofa in Ricardo’s private study—the very room Mrs. Gable had warned me was strictly off-limits just hours ago. Now, it was a makeshift triage center. An older man with wire-rimmed glasses and a worn leather medical bag, introduced only as Dr. Rossi, gently probed the swollen, agonizingly tender skin around my throat.
Every time I swallowed, it felt like swallowing broken glass.
“The bruising is severe, but the trachea is intact,” Dr. Rossi murmured, shining a penlight into my eyes to check my pupillary response. “You are incredibly lucky, Miss Evans. Another ten seconds with that kind of pressure, and the damage would have been irreversible. I am going to prescribe a heavy anti-inflammatory and a muscle relaxant. You need to rest your voice entirely for the next forty-eight hours.”
I nodded once, wincing as the movement pulled at the bruised muscles in my neck.
In the corner of the dimly lit study, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering, oblivious city, was Ricardo. He hadn’t spoken a word since he carried me in here. He had simply set me down on the sofa, summoned the doctor, and retreated to the shadows. He had finally changed his blood-soaked shirt, replacing it with a dark, fitted cashmere sweater, but the violent, untamed energy radiating from him hadn't diminished. He was a caged tiger, pacing the perimeter of his territory, waiting for the next threat to show its face.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Ricardo said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that commanded the room. “Dante will see you out.”
Dr. Rossi packed his bag with practiced efficiency, clearly accustomed to the abrupt dismissals of the underworld. He gave me a sympathetic nod before disappearing through the heavy mahogany doors.
The silence that fell over the room was suffocating. I wrapped my arms around my waist, suddenly acutely aware of how small and out of place I was in this fortress of dark mahogany, expensive scotch, and lethal secrets.
Ricardo turned away from the window and slowly crossed the room. He stopped right in front of me, his tall frame blocking out the ambient light from the hallway. He looked down at me, his gaze dropping to the dark, ugly purple finger marks blossoming across my pale throat.
A muscle feathered in his jaw. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if it took every ounce of his legendary self-control not to punch his fist through the nearest wall.
“Does it hurt?” he asked softly, the roughness in his voice betraying the calm exterior he was trying to project.
I opened my mouth to speak, but my vocal cords seized. I settled for a small, shallow nod.
Ricardo closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, letting out a harsh exhale. “I brought you here to keep him safe,” he said, the words laced with a bitter, self-directed venom. “I promised you protection. And on your first night under my roof, you were nearly murdered on my bathroom floor.”
I reached out, tentatively placing my hand on his forearm. His muscles were corded and tense beneath the soft cashmere. He opened his eyes, staring at my hand, before his gaze snapped back up to mine.
“I’m alive,” I forced out, my voice a broken, raspy whisper that sounded like dragging sandpaper across wood. “Leo is safe. That’s all that matters.”
“You are not disposable, Clara,” Ricardo said fiercely, leaning down so his face was inches from mine. The scent of cedar and pure adrenaline washed over me. “Do not speak as if your life is an acceptable casualty for my family. It is not.”
Before I could process the heavy, possessive weight of his words, the study doors burst open.
Dante stepped through, his massive frame filling the doorway. But it wasn't the security chief that caught my attention. It was the small, terrified boy clinging to Dante’s leg.
Leo was covered in lint from the linen chute, his silk pajamas wrinkled and dusty. His dark curls were a wild mess, and his face was streaked with fresh tears.
“He wouldn't let the medics look at him, Boss,” Dante said apologetically, looking down at the boy. “He just kept trying to run toward the West Wing.”
Ricardo immediately dropped to one knee, holding his arms out to his son. “Leo. Mio leone. Come here. You’re safe.”
But Leo didn't go to his father.
His wide, panicked eyes scanned the room until they landed on me, huddled on the leather sofa. A ragged, heartbreaking sob tore from his small throat. He bypassed Ricardo completely, sprinting across the Persian rug, and threw himself into my arms.
I gasped as his weight hit my bruised ribs, but I didn't care. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him tightly against my chest, burying my face in his messy curls. He was trembling violently, his tiny fingers clutching the fabric of my shirt with the same desperate, iron-clad grip he had used in the restaurant.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered hoarsely, rubbing his back in soothing circles. “I told you I’d be right behind you. I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
Over the top of Leo’s head, I looked at Ricardo. He was still kneeling on the floor, his empty arms suspended in the air. A flash of profound, unbearable pain crossed his features. It was the look of a king who realized that all his power, all his money, and all his men could not buy the one thing his son desperately needed: a mother’s comfort.
Slowly, Ricardo lowered his arms and stood up. The vulnerability vanished, instantly replaced by the cold, calculating mask of the Don. He looked at Dante.
“Report,” Ricardo commanded, his tone completely devoid of emotion.
Dante stepped fully into the room, closing the heavy doors behind him. He looked at me and Leo, hesitating. “Boss. Maybe we should take this to the war room.”
“Speak,” Ricardo barked, the absolute authority in his voice leaving no room for argument. “Clara is involved now. She stays.”
Dante swallowed hard. “It was a Bratva hit squad, like I said. But they didn't breach the perimeter by force, Mr. Moretti. They didn't blow the doors or repel from the roof. They walked right through the private service elevator.”
Ricardo’s eyes narrowed into lethal slits. “The service elevator requires a biometric scan and a daily rotating cipher. How did they get the cipher?”
“They didn't hack it,” Dante said grimly, pulling a small, encrypted tablet from his jacket. “The system logs show the cipher was manually inputted from the inside console. Someone in this penthouse unlocked the doors for them. Someone disabled the hallway cameras five minutes before they stepped off the elevator.”
A heavy, icy dread settled in the pit of my stomach.
“An inside job,” Ricardo murmured, the words dripping with deadly realization.
“Yes, sir,” Dante confirmed. “We have fifty staff members, guards, and catering crew in the building for the gala. We’ve locked down the entire tower. Nobody leaves until we find the rat. But the reality is, Boss... the penthouse is compromised.”
Ricardo turned slowly, his dark eyes fixing on me and the trembling boy in my arms. The implications of Dante’s words hung in the air like a guillotine waiting to drop. If someone inside the organization had betrayed Ricardo, nowhere in New York was safe. The fortress had a cracked foundation.
“The Bratva doesn't miss,” Ricardo said quietly, though the silence in the room amplified his every word. “They will know by sunrise that the squad failed. They will know Leo is still alive. And,” he paused, his gaze dropping to the bruises on my neck, “they will know that a woman matching your description is the reason their men are lying in body bags in my foyer.”
Panic flared in my chest. “What are you saying?” I rasped, clutching Leo tighter.
“I am saying that you are no longer just a nanny, Clara,” Ricardo stated, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the breath catch in my ruined throat. “You killed one of their men. You thwarted their assassination attempt on the heir to the Moretti family. To the Bratva, you are now a high-value target.”
I stared at him, the reality of my nightmare spiraling out of control. Twenty-four hours ago, my biggest fear was paying my electric bill. Now, the Russian mafia wanted me dead.
“What do we do?” I whispered, the fear finally bleeding into my voice.
Ricardo walked toward the desk, pulling out a satellite phone. He didn't look like a man cornered; he looked like a general preparing for a war he had been born to fight.
“Pack whatever you can fit into a single bag,” Ricardo ordered, his voice echoing with absolute finality. “Dante, prep the helicopter on the roof. We leave in twenty minutes.”
“Leave?” I croaked, struggling to stand up with Leo still clinging to my waist. “Leave for where?”
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Ricardo turned to face me, the shadows of the room contouring the sharp, ruthless lines of his face.
“We are leaving New York,” he said. “You belong to me now, Clara. And I protect what is mine. We are going to the one place the Bratva cannot reach us. We are going to Sicily.”
