Chapter 3 - The Gilded Cage
The penthouse at the top of the Moretti Tower was quieter than a cathedral.
Marco led me through a set of double steel doors into a sprawling suite of glass and polished marble.
The city lights stretched endlessly beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows, twinkling like fallen stars against the black velvet night.
"The master bedroom is down the hall on the right, Mrs. Carter," Marco said respectfully.
I flinched visibly at the surname.
Marco caught my reaction and lowered his head in an immediate apology.
"Forgive me. Miss Whitcomb."
"Thank you, Marco."
"There are fresh clothes in the closet, and the refrigerator is fully stocked."
"Does this suite lock from the outside?" I asked, unable to stop the tremor in my voice.
Marco paused, his weathered face softening into an expression that looked dangerously close to sympathy.
"Every door in this building locks from the inside, Miss Whitcomb."
"The boss made sure of that before you came up."
"Where is he?"
"Downstairs, handling the fallout."
"Fallout?"
"Your husband did not go home," Marco said coldly.
"He went straight to the precinct on Twenty-Second Street."
My stomach plummeted straight into the floorboards.
"He has friends there," I said, remembering the detectives Derek entertained in our dining room.
"Men who play poker with him every Friday night."
"The boss has friends too," Marco replied with a thin, chilling smile.
"The difference is, our friends own the precinct."
Marco bowed his head and stepped backward out of the suite, allowing the heavy door to click securely into place.
I walked over to the door and tested the handle.
It moved freely.
There was a deadbolt beneath it, solid brass and shiny.
I turned it slowly, hearing the heavy tumblers slide into place with a definitive, satisfying clunk.
For three years, every lock in my life had been turned against me.
Now, for the first time, I was the one holding the mechanism.
I walked into the adjoining bathroom and stared at myself in the massive vanity mirror.
The woman staring back looked like a ghost who had forgotten how to haunt.
My skin was pale, my brown hair tangled with dust from the service elevator, and dark purple shadows bruised the delicate skin beneath my eyes.
I stripped out of my torn dress and stepped into the massive walk-in shower.
The water was scalding hot, pounding against my tense shoulders until the muscles began to unknot.
I scrubbed my skin until it burned red, desperate to wash away the phantom touch of Derek’s hands.
When I stepped out, wrapped in a plush terrycloth robe, I heard the faint ping of the television mounted on the living room wall.
It had turned on automatically to the local late-night news broadcast.
I walked barefoot across the heated wooden floors, holding my breath.
On the screen was Derek.
He stood on the steps of the police station, surrounded by flashing blue and red emergency lights.
His hair was artfully tousled, his tie loosened, his eyes brimming with performative tears.
A microphone was shoved into his handsome face.
"I just want my wife back," Derek’s voice broadcasted through the speakers, dripping with honeyed sorrow.
"She’s off her medication, and she was abducted from our home by associates of Alexander Moretti."
I gasped, pressing my hands against the glass table.
"He is using her vulnerability against her," Derek continued to the cameras, his jaw trembling with manufactured grief.
"Emily, if you can hear this, please know that I forgive you."
"Just come home to the people who truly love you."
The news anchor switched back to the studio, speculating wildly about mob wars and high-society kidnappings.
My breath came in short, jagged gasps as the walls seemed to close in around me once again.
He was turning the entire city into his weapon.
Before I could surrender to the rising panic, the private elevator in the corner of the room chimed.
The doors slid open, and Alexander stepped inside.
He had removed his tie, and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the strong line of his throat.
He took one look at the television screen, then grabbed the remote and clicked it off.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"He's good at this," Alexander said, his voice dangerously calm.
"He knows how to play the victim."
"He's going to convince them," I cried, tears spilling hot and fast down my freshly washed cheeks.
"He will get a court order, and they will drag me out of here in handcuffs."
Alexander took two long strides across the room until he stood directly in front of me.
He didn't touch me, but his presence was a fortress, immovable and immense.
"Let me tell you what is going to happen, Emily."
"Tell me," I sobbed.
"Tomorrow morning, Derek Carter’s offshore accounts will freeze."
"By noon, every bank in Illinois will call in his personal loans."
"And by sunset, he will realize that threatening you was the most expensive mistake of his miserable life."
I looked up into his pale blue eyes, searching for hesitation and finding none.
"Why are you doing this for me?"
"Because your father didn't ask questions when he pulled me out of that ditch," Alexander whispered, his voice rough.
"And because I swore on his grave that nobody would ever hurt his little bird again."
The nickname struck me straight in the center of my soul.
Little bird.
May you like
Only one person had ever called me that.
And standing before this dangerous, lethal man, I finally realized that my father had never truly left me defenseless.
