Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Alessia
I shouldn't be here.
The thought hammers through my skull as I stand on this godforsaken Chicago Street, surrounded by crumbling buildings and broken dreams. Graffiti tags cover every surface like infected wounds, and the smell of piss and decay hits me like a physical blow, making my stomach clench and bile rise in my throat.
This isn't the kind of neighborhood a Moretti wife should be caught dead in…
Which is exactly why I'm here.
I pause near a rusted fire escape, pretending to check my reflection in a shop window that's completely cracked.
The movement lets me scan the street behind me without being obvious about it.
Old habits die hard, and paranoia has kept me alive this long.
A black sedan idles at the corner, exhaust puffing gray clouds into the autumn air.
The driver's been there since I arrived twenty minutes ago. Too long for it to be a coincidence.
My phone buzzes against my ribs, the vibration sharp enough to make me flinch. Only three people have this number, and one of them is dead. Has been for forty-five days now.
The caller ID makes my stomach clench: Don Emilio Moretti.
My father-in-law. The man who owns half of Chicago's politicians and all of its fear. I can't ignore him—no one ignores Don Emilio and lives to regret it. But answering means lying, and I'm so fucking tired of lying.
"Papà," I say, forcing warmth into my voice as I accept the call. The Italian rolls off my tongue like honey, sweet and practiced. "How are you feeling today?"
"Alessia." His voice cuts through the phone line like broken glass—sharp, cold, unforgiving. Even through the speaker, it carries the weight of absolute authority. "Where are you?"
My free hand finds the small knife tucked inside my purse, fingers curling around the familiar weight. Lorenzo gave it to me on our wedding night, a pretty little thing with a pearl handle. For protection, he'd said, not knowing I'd learn to sleep with it under my pillow. Protection from him.
"At the doctor's office," I lie smoothly, my eyes never leaving the street. A man pretends to read a newspaper across the street, but the pages haven't turned once since I've been watching. "Getting some routine tests done. Nothing to worry about."
"Tests." The word hangs in the air like smoke. "What kind of tests, daughter?"
Daughter. He only calls me that when he wants something, or when he's about to deliver bad news. Sometimes both.
"Just follow-up care, Papà. You know how doctors are—they want to monitor everything, especially with..." I let my voice trail off, leaving the implication hanging. The pregnancy that doesn't exist. The grandchild that will never be born. The lie that's kept me alive for forty-five days.
"Sì, of course." His tone softens fractionally, and I can picture him in his study, surrounded by the dark wood and darker secrets that define the Moretti legacy. "The memorial is in one hour, Alessia. You will be there."
It's not a request. Don Emilio doesn't make requests—he issues commands, and smart people follow them. The forty-day memorial for Lorenzo. Catholic tradition demands it, and the Morettis bow to tradition when it suits them.
"Of course," I say, checking my watch. The appointment inside will take ten minutes, fifteen at most. Plenty of time to get this done and make it home to play the grieving widow.
Again. "I'll be back within the hour." "Good.
" A pause, long enough for me to wonder what he's thinking, what he knows.
"And Alessia? Take care of yourself. That baby is precious to all of us. "
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my reflection in the cracked window.
Dark auburn hair pulled back in a neat chignon, golden-brown eyes that have learned to hide too much, skin that's finally lost the sickly pallor it carried for months.
I look like a respectable mafia wife. The perfect widow.
If only they knew the truth.
I turn away from the window and face the building that is the reason I am in this neighborhood.
The Chicago Family Health Center squats between a check-cashing place and a store that definitely doesn't sell the kind of merchandise advertised in its blacked-out windows.
The clinic's sign flickers on and off, the 'H' in 'Health' strobing like a dying heartbeat.
Paint peels from the door frame, and the single window facing the street is covered with bars that have seen better years.
It's perfect. No one from my world would ever set foot in a place like this, which makes it invisible. And invisibility, I've learned, is its own kind of power.
The door sticks when I push it, requiring actual effort to get inside.
The waiting room is a study in despair—worn linoleum floors in a color that might have once been white, fluorescent lights that flicker and buzz like dying insects, and the kind of furniture that's designed to be uncomfortable.
The air tastes of antiseptic and something fouler underneath, something that speaks of too many desperate people passing through these doors.
A receptionist sits behind bulletproof glass, her eyes the color of old pennies and just as lifeless. She doesn't look up when I enter, doesn't acknowledge my existence until I tap my knuckles against her window.
"Name?" she asks, voice flat as roadkill.
"Smith," I say. "I have an appointment with Dr. Carter."
She consults a schedule that looks like it was typed on a machine from the Carter administration, running one chipped fingernail down the page. "Room three. He'll be with you shortly."
I take a seat in one of the molded plastic chairs, crossing my legs carefully and keeping my purse close.
The knife inside feels heavier now, more necessary.
Two other people wait in the small space—a teenager who can't be more than sixteen, staring at her hands with the kind of desperation that makes my chest tight, and an older woman whose face tells stories I don't want to read.
This is where hope comes to die, where desperate people make desperate choices. Where Mrs. Lorenzo Moretti can become just another woman with a problem that money can solve.
"Smith?" A voice calls from the hallway, and I stand smoothly, years of finishing school posture serving me well even here.
Dr. Carter stands in the doorway to room three, and he's exactly what I expected—sleazy smile, receding hairline, and gold teeth that catch the fluorescent light.
His white coat has seen better days, and there's a stain near the pocket that I choose not to identify.
"Doctor," I say, extending my hand with the kind of cool politeness that comes naturally after years of charity galas and political dinners. He takes it, his palm soft and damp.
"Come in, come in," he says, gesturing toward the examination room. It's cleaner than the waiting area, but not by much. "Please, have a seat."
I remain standing, my chin lifted in the way that used to make Lorenzo's eyes go dark with rage. Power pose, my mother called it, back when she was alive to give advice. Back before the Morettis decided the Ricci family had outlived their usefulness.
"That won't be necessary," I say. "We both know why I'm here, Doctor." The words taste bitter—I'd had to take an enormous risk calling him, speaking in careful euphemisms about 'documentation' and 'discretion.' "You know this isn't a medical consultation."
His smile falters for a moment, revealing something calculating underneath. "Of course, of course. Though I do usually recommend at least a brief examination, for authenticity's sake—"
"No." The word cuts through the air like a blade. I let my smile turn sharp, the kind that used to make servant girls scatter when I was still naive enough to think I had power. "I'm not here for your medical expertise. I'm here for your flexible morals."
He actually laughs at that, a sound like gravel in a blender. "You're certainly more direct than most of my... patients."
"I find directness saves time," I say, setting my purse on his desk and opening it with deliberate care. The knife catches the light, and his eyes track the movement. Good. Let him wonder if I'm desperate enough to use it. "Time I don't have to waste on pretenses."
Inside my purse, beneath the knife and next to the compact mirror I never use, is a thick envelope. I remove it carefully, feeling the weight of necessity and desperation.
Fifteen thousand dollars in cash, money I'd scraped together from jewelry sales during my carefully orchestrated shopping trips, skimming from the household accounts, and a small emergency fund my mother had made me promise to keep hidden for exactly this kind of desperate moment.
I set the envelope on his desk, the bills making a soft sound against the scarred wood. "For this amount," I say, meeting his eyes steadily, "you've never seen me. You never will again. And the documentation you provide will be flawless."
Dr. Carter lifts the envelope, feeling its weight with the practiced touch of someone who's made this trade before. He doesn't count it, we both know I'm good for it, but he opens it enough to see the bills inside. Hundreds, mostly, because fifties and twenties would make the stack too thick.
"Understood," he says, tucking the envelope into his desk drawer. From the same drawer, he produces a manila envelope, sealed and official-looking. The clinic's letterhead is printed across the top, the kind of detail that makes forgeries convincing. "Your results, Mrs... Smith."
I take the envelope, feeling the weight of my future inside. "Pregnancy test?"
"Positive." He settles back in his chair, looking pleased with himself. "Lab work confirms high hormone levels that match about ten weeks of pregnancy." He pauses, studying my face. "Congratulations."
"Thank you." I slip the envelope into my purse, next to the knife that's kept me safe and the phone that connects me to my cage. "This transaction is complete."
"Of course." But he doesn't look away, and something in his expression makes my skin crawl. "Though I do hope you'll remember where to find me, should you need any... future services."
I'm already moving toward the door, my heels clicking against the linoleum with sharp sounds. "Doctor, for both our sakes, I hope I never see you again."
The waiting room feels smaller now. I nod once to the receptionist, who still doesn't look up, and push through the sticky door.
The air outside tastes like freedom and fear in equal measure. I've done it—bought myself another month, maybe two, of protection under the Moretti umbrella. As long as they think I'm carrying Lorenzo's child, I'm valuable. Untouchable. But the moment they discover the truth...
I don't let myself finish that thought.
My car sits where I left it, a modest sedan that doesn't attract attention.
I chose it specifically for that reason, the Maserati would have marked me as clearly as a neon sign in this neighborhood.
As I walk toward it, my heels clicking against broken concrete, I feel eyes on me.
The same sensation I've lived with for forty-five days, the weight of being watched.
The black sedan is still there. The newspaper man has moved closer, his position shifting just enough to keep me in sight. My fingers find the knife again, and I adjust my grip on my purse, making sure I can reach it quickly if needed.
I'm almost to my car when it happens.
Footsteps behind me, moving too fast, too determined. I spin, my hand already reaching for the knife, but I'm not fast enough. A hand clamps down on my shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and I jerk away with practiced desperation.
"Don't…" I start to say, but the word dies as a black SUV screeches around the corner, tires screaming against asphalt. The door flies open before it even stops moving, and hands—multiple hands—grab for me.
I twist, my body moving on instincts learned through months of survival, but there are too many of them. My fingers close around the knife's handle just as something sharp bites into my upper arm. A needle, I realize with crystal clarity, even as warmth spreads through my veins like honey.
"No," I whisper, but my voice sounds distant, hollow. The knife falls from suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto the concrete like a death knell. My legs give out, and I'm falling, the world tilting sideways as strong arms catch me.
The last thing I see before darkness swallows everything is the envelope from the clinic, scattered papers drifting across the dirty street like snow. Like the ashes of all my carefully laid plans.
Then nothing.