Chapter 3 - THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWNThe air inside the small living room felt suddenly thin, as if Anthony had sucked all the oxygen out of the space just by standing in it. I stood between him and the hallway leading to the bedrooms, my back rigid, my hands clenched into tight fists at my sides.
"Get out," I said, my voice dropping an octave, steadying itself through sheer terror. "If you ever cared about me—even for a second—get back in your car and go back to Chicago."
Anthony stopped walking. He stood just a few feet away from me, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of rain, cedarwood, and the expensive imported cologne he had always worn. It was a scent that used to make me feel safe, wrapped in his arms in the penthouse overlooking the Chicago skyline. Now, it made my stomach churn with acid.
"Care about you?" Anthony repeated, his voice dangerously low. He let out a dark, humorless chuckle. "Eliza, you stole my life and walked out into the middle of a blizzard with a backpack and a handful of cash. You didn't just break my heart; you declared war. And you thought you could hide in a logging town in Oregon?"
"I wasn't declaring war!" I snapped, the tension finally snapping like a taut wire. Tears of frustration hot and sharp pricked behind my eyelids, but I forced them back. I refused to cry in front of him. I refused to look weak. "I was saving my life! I saw what happened to the men who crossed your desk, Anthony! I saw what you did to people who knew too much! You think I wanted to raise my babies alone in damp basements and motels? I did it because the alternative was watching my children grow up in a gilded cage built on blood and extortion!"
For a second, a flash of genuine emotion broke through the frozen facade of his face—something raw and dark, like an old wound tearing open. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced once again by the untouchable mask of the crime boss.
"In my world, Eliza, protection looks like violence to people who don't understand it," he said smoothly, taking another step closer. I didn't back down, though every instinct screamed at me to run. "You think I would have let anyone touch you? You think anyone in Chicago would have dared lay a finger on the woman carrying my child?"
"I didn't know I was carrying your child when I ran!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "I found out two weeks later in a fleabag motel in Nebraska! I was twenty-four years old, terrified, and completely alone. You didn't want a family, Anthony—you wanted a decoration! You wanted a quiet assistant by day and a warm body by night, wrapped up in a neat little corporate bow!"
Anthony’s jaw tightened. A muscle leaped in his cheek. The air between us grew so thick it felt solid. For a second, I thought he might reach out and grab me—maybe shake me, maybe pull me into him. I braced myself for it.
Instead, he looked past me again, his dark blue eyes fixing on the hallway.
"Are they in there?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
My blood turned to ice. My hand instinctively dropped toward my waistband, my fingers brushing against the cold steel of the revolver. "Don't you dare go down that hallway, Anthony."
"Move, Eliza," he said. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order backed by a decade of absolute power and fear.
"I have a gun," I said, pulling the small revolver out of my waistband and pointing it straight at his chest. My hands shook so violently I thought the gun might drop to the floor, but I kept my finger locked on the trigger. "I swear to God, Anthony, if you take one step toward my children, I will shoot you."
Anthony looked down at the gun pointed at his heart. He didn't blink. He didn't flinch. He looked at the weapon, then slowly raised his eyes back to meet mine, a cold, mocking amusement playing in his expression.
"You bought a snub-nosed .38," he noted calmly, as if we were discussing the weather. "Serial number filed off. Cheap ammunition. You’ve been practicing at local ranges on Tuesdays, haven't you?"
My breath hitched. "How do you—"
"Eliza, I own half the pawnshops and gun dealers between here and Chicago," he interrupted smoothly, taking another step forward. The barrel of the gun was practically touching the fabric of his dark shirt now. "Do you really think you could pull that trigger?"
"Try me," I whispered, tears finally spilling over my lashes, hot and fast down my cheeks. "Try me, Anthony. I've spent three years learning how to live without you. I've learned how to feed my babies on pennies, how to run, how to hide in the dark. I won't let you take them back to that life. I'd rather put a bullet in your chest right now."
Anthony stopped. He stood so close I could feel the heat radiating off his body. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out. His large, warm hand wrapped around the barrel of the gun.
My finger froze on the trigger. My whole body seized up.
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With agonizing gentleness, he pushed the barrel down, lowering my hand until the weapon pointed harmlessly at the floor. He didn't use force; he just used the overwhelming, crushing weight of his presence.
"You wouldn't shoot me," Anthony said softly, his face inches from mine. "Because you know as well as I do... part of you still loves the man who gave you the world."
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