Alone at last, my frustration gnaws at me. Months have passed, and still I cannot find my angel. She vanished without a trace, convinced I betrayed her. I should have let Dario and Dante handle Salvatore and Berisha, and taken Elle back to the mansion myself.
Now she is out there—alone, unprotected. Brio Leone and his wife slipped away before my men could reach them. By now, word of his scheming daughter’s death will have reached him, and I have no doubt he’ll lay the blame on Elle. The only solace is this: if all my resources cannot find her, then neither can he.
Getting rid of the Albanians and my scheming uncle five months ago are the only positive things that came of the events of that damn fucked up night. The night that cost me my wife. Once the news of Alban Berisha’s death reached his remaining men, together with my strong suggestion that they relocate, they were gone within twenty-four hours.
News of the fire that destroyed Alban’s mansion dominated national television. Authorities blamed a gas leak. The mansion was reduced to rubble, the party guests were burnt alive as alarms and sprinklers failed. The cleanup crew staged it flawlessly. I couldn’t contain my amusement while I watched the report.
Yet thoughts of that night bring back the frustration and fear I felt when Dante called. At first, I thought Elle had been taken again. But no—she had left of her own accord.
After the call, Dario and I rushed to meet Dante. He was pacing in front of his SUV, agitation written across his face. My own fury boiled over—I couldn’t think straight. Before I knew it,I was out of the vehicle, grabbing Dante by the collar, shouting in his face. The shock in his eyes mirrored my own loss of control. Dario pulled me back, forcing distance between us. My chest heaved, anger and regret twisting inside me. When I finally calmed, Dante straightened his jacket, his voice steady as he explained what had happened.
Dante reminded me of the head injury Elle had suffered during her abduction by Catalina and her father. On the drive back to the mansion, she began to feel unwell and asked him to stop. He pulled into the dimly lit parking lot of a convenience store. As soon as the SUV halted, Elle pushed open the back door and leaned out, retching until her stomach was empty.
Concerned and unsure how to help, Dante asked if there was anything he could do. She requested water and painkillers. Leaving her in the backseat, he hurried inside the store.
When he returned minutes later, Elle was gone. Panic surged through him as he scanned the lot. The SUV was the only vehicle there, the night eerily quiet, with only a lone clerk on duty.
It was all I could do to keep myself together. There was no one else to blame—only me. No matter how much I wanted to fault Dante for losing sight of her, the truth was brutal. I had failed my angel.
There were cameras recording outside the store Dante had gone into. We moved fast to seize the tapes. The clerk, barely more than a kid, was working the graveyard shift alone. When we stormed in with weapons drawn, he froze, terror flooding his face. He thought it was a robbery.
The confusion in his eyes when I demanded the surveillance tapes at gunpoint might have been almost comical under different circumstances. His hands shook as he fumbled to comply. When we turned and walked out without taking acent, he collapsed onto the stool behind the register, trembling with relief.
The memory of that footage still haunts me. My wife slipped away from the car park the moment my brother stepped inside the store. Dante’s black jacket hung loosely over her shoulders, swallowing her petite frame. She hunched forward, bracing against the bite of the December night.
Crossing the street, she glanced back again and again, as if afraid of being followed. Then a bus pulled up, its bulk cutting her off from the camera’s view. Less than a minute later, when the bus rolled away, Elle was gone.
I stare down at the crowded dance floor, but my mind isn’t on the revelry below. All I can think about is Elle—her absence gnawing at me. The sudden ring of my phone jolts me back. “Yeah.” My grip on the phone hardens. “You’ve got to be shitting me. Fucking bastard.”
I’m already moving, leaving the office behind and heading toward the ground level of the club. The music grows louder with each step. “I’m on my way.”
By the time I end the call, I’ve pushed through the private section and out into the main corridor. My bodyguards fall in line, nodding as they follow me out of the building.
Chapter 44
~Elle~
Lub dub. Lub dub. The rhythmic gallop fills the room, echoing as the probe coated with cool gel is pressed against my abdomen. I’m transfixed, moved to tears by the sound—it’s music to me. On the monitor, the tiny heart flickers steadily, a sight beyond words.
“Everything looks good, Elle. Your baby is healthy and growing well,” my doctor reassures. “Now that the vomiting has eased, your weight gain is on track. Just try to keep your stress down—we need your blood pressure steady.” She offers me a tissue, and I wipe the cool gel from my skin, still overwhelmed by the miracle before me.
“Of course, I understand.” Doctor Phillips, my obstetrician, steps out to give me a moment to dress. When she returns a few minutes later, she hands me copies of the ultrasound images. I trace the photograph with my fingertips, overwhelmed by love.
“There are Lamaze classes at the Women’s Center,” she says, pausing as she writes out my prenatal prescription. “I think you should join. They’ll help prepare you for labor.”
I keep my eyes down, avoiding her gaze, already knowing where this conversation is headed. “Do you have someone to attend with you? Have you reconsidered telling the baby’s father?”
“I’m not going to force him to be part of our lives. A friend might come with me to Lamaze classes.” “Okay. I’ll see you in two weeks for your next antenatal check. Remember—limit the stress.” I nodded, leaving the office without another word.
God, the thought of telling Dominic about the pregnancy makes my heart race. I can’t predict his reaction. In ourmarriage, he never once voiced unhappiness—until that night. His disappointment shattered me. He made me feel disposable, unwanted, for the first time.
How can I trust him again? How can I believe he wants this baby? Doubt gnaws at me, even about the night he whispered he wanted a child with me. As the elevator doors close, sealing me in silence, I remember that night…months ago.
We had just made love, and now lay wrapped in the afterglow. Breathless, my limbs weak, my heart still racing from the intoxicating release. Dominic lay beside me, mirroring my exhaustion. When we finally stirred, he turned toward me, his fingers tracing gentle circles across my abdomen. The feather-light touch sent butterflies through me. Propped on his elbow, his face hovered close, his expression unreadable. He paused, palm resting protectively on my stomach, before breaking the silence.
“Angel… do you think we just made a baby?”
The question startled me, pulling a nervous laugh from my lips. Yet beneath it was a flicker of joy. “I… don’t know,” I admitted softly, then braved the question that lingered. “Dominic, do you want children?” I forced myself to meet his gaze, holding my breath in anticipation. His eyes shifted from my stomach to mine, intense and unwavering. Then his lips curved into that familiar, lopsided smile. Relief washed over me as I exhaled. He leaned closer, whispering just before his kiss claimed me.
