Chapter 3 - The Intruder in the Beacon Hill Brownstone
The apartment in Beacon Hill was quiet, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. I had kicked off my muddy heels at the door, poured a glass of cheap red wine, and sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, staring blankly at the empty space beside me where Alessandro used to sit and read the financial journals.
Six months. It felt like six decades.
I took a slow sip of the wine, letting the bitter liquid burn my throat. That was when I heard it.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
Not the old, settling groan of the building. A deliberate, heavy step.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I set the wine glass down so fast it spilled across the coffee table, staining the white marble like blood. I scrambled off the sofa, my breath hitching in my throat. The front door was double-locked and bolted. No one could get in unless...
Unless someone had a key.
Only two people in the world had a key to this apartment: me, and the man lying under six feet of New England dirt.
A tall silhouette filled the doorway of the dimly lit living room.
The breath rushed out of my lungs. I froze, paralyzed by a mixture of sheer terror and delirious hope. The figure stepped into the amber pool of light cast by the floor lamp.
Broad shoulders. Impeccable posture. A dark wool coat unbuttoned at the neck. And eyes—dark, midnight-black eyes—staring at me with an intensity that could cut glass.
“A-Alessandro?” I whispered, my voice trembling so violently I barely recognized it. I shook my head frantically, backing away until the back of my knees hit the bookshelf. “No. No, you’re dead. I went to your grave. I saw the certificate.”
He didn't answer right away. He just looked at me, his chest rising and falling heavily, as if he had run a marathon just to reach this room. The harsh overhead light caught the jagged, angry scar on his neck—a mark I had never seen before.
“Emma,” he said.
The sound of his voice—that deep, rich, accented baritone—shattered the last fragile pieces of my sanity.
It wasn't a memory. It wasn't a dream born of whiskey and grief. It was him.
“You’re alive,” I breathed, tears instantly flooding my vision again, though this time they weren't tears of sorrow. A hot, blinding fury ignited right alongside the relief. I lunged forward across the room, my hands balling into fists, and slammed them against his chest. “You son of a bitch! You’re alive?!”
He didn't flinch. He let me hit him, taking the blows against his solid frame without moving an inch.
“Emma—stop—”
“You let me mourn you!” I screamed, my voice breaking into a sob as I hit his shoulders again and again. “I sat in the rain for six months! I wore black! I couldn't breathe, Alessandro! Every time I closed my eyes, I saw your body in that warehouse! How could you do this to me? How could you let me think you were dead?!”
With a sudden, powerful movement, Alessandro caught my wrists in his large hands. He didn't hurt me, but his grip was unshakeable, pinning my arms against his chest. He pulled me flush against him, burying his face in my hair, inhaling my scent as if he were a drowning man breaking the surface for air.
“Listen to me,” he growled against my ear, his voice rough with emotion. “If I hadn't let them think I was dead, Don Luciano would have had your head on a spike within forty-eight hours. The bomb at the harbor was meant for me. My own uncle sold me out to the Chicago families. The only way to keep you alive was to make them believe I was gone.”
I stopped struggling. The words hung in the air between us, heavy and terrifying.
“Chicago?” I whispered, looking up into his dark, tortured eyes. “What does Chicago have to do with us?”
May you like
“Everything,” Alessandro murmured, his thumb gently wiping a tear from my cheek. “And now that they know I’m breathing... they’re coming for us both.”
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