Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Glass
Living in the Castellano compound was like living inside a gilded cage submerged at the bottom of the ocean. The luxury was endless, but the pressure was unbearable.
Two weeks passed. Under Dr. Marchetti’s strict care, the swelling in my ankle subsided, and I was finally able to ditch the crutches, walking with only a faint limp. Emma blossomed. Her cheeks grew rosy, her cough vanished under the proper medical regimen, and she spent her afternoons in the estate’s private botanical greenhouse, painting messy watercolors under the watchful, surprisingly gentle eye of Dante.
The hulking mob enforcer who looked like he could snap a baseball bat with his bare hands sat on miniature plastic stools, sipping imaginary tea from plastic cups with my three-year-old daughter.
“She is tough,” Dante told me one afternoon, his stone face softening as Emma chased a butterfly. “Like you, Miss Ava.”
“I’m not tough, Dante,” I replied quietly. “I’m just exhausted.”
“Survival is toughness,” Dante grunted. “The boss sees it. That’s why he respects you.”
Luca Castellano was a ghost who haunted his own home. He left before dawn in motorcades of armored vehicles and returned late into the night, the faint scent of rain, gunpowder, and stress clinging to his clothes. But every evening, without fail, he walked into the conservatory to check on us.
He never made romantic advances. He maintained an immaculate, aristocratic distance. Yet his eyes followed me everywhere. When I walked across the room, when I laughed at something Emma said, when I poured tea—Luca watched me with an intense, quiet hunger that made my heart race against my ribs.
On a Friday night, the storm returned with violent fury. Thunder rattled the reinforced glass of the grand library where I was sorting through hundreds of historical shipping ledgers—the cover job Luca had created for me.
The double doors clicked open. Luca walked in, loosening his silk tie. He looked exhausted, lines of strain etched around his mouth.
“Emma is asleep?” he asked, pouring himself a bourbon.
“An hour ago. Mrs. Chen is with her.” I closed a leather ledger. “You look terrible, Luca.”
A faint smirk touched his lips. “Thank you for the flattery.”
“Did you find Jake?”
The humor vanished instantly. Luca walked over to the library table, setting his glass down. “We intercepted a courier in Vancouver this morning. Jake has finalized his deal with the Petrov syndicate. The Russian leadership has arrived in Seattle.”
My blood ran cold. “What does that mean?”
“It means the clock has run out,” Luca said quietly. “They know Emma is here.”
Fear surged through my chest, cold and paralyzing. “Here? In this house?”
“They know she is within the estate perimeter,” Luca corrected, leaning against the edge of the desk, his frame towering over me. “The Petrovs are reckless. They won't risk a direct assault on my compound—they don't have the firepower. But they have inside information.”
I frowned, looking up at him. “A leak in your security?”
“Possibly.” Luca’s eyes hardened. “Or Jake knows my habits better than I anticipated.”
He looked down at me. For the first time, I noticed a tear in the shoulder seam of his shirt and a faint smear of dark crimson along his collar.
“You’re bleeding,” I gasped, stepping toward him without thinking.
“It isn't mine,” he replied flatly.
“Luca, look at your collar!”
Instinct overrode my fear. I reached up and pulled aside the lapel of his jacket. A deep, jagged graze from a high-caliber bullet sliced across his upper shoulder, the white linen soaked in fresh blood.
“You call this 'not yours'?” My voice cracked. “Sit down. Right now.”
Luca stared at me, surprised by the sudden authority in my tone. For a second, I thought he might snap his fingers and have a guard throw me out. Instead, a wry, tired smile flickered across his lips, and he sat down in the leather wingback chair.
I grabbed the first-aid kit kept behind the bar, wet a clean cloth with antiseptic, and knelt beside him.
My hands trembled as I unbuttoned his shirt, pushing the fabric off his left shoulder. His torso was a map of raw power and brutal history—lean muscle, hard sinew, and half a dozen scars from blades and bullets. But as my fingers grazed his warm skin, my breath hitched.
Luca’s dark eyes never left my face. His breathing slowed, deep and measured.
“You don't belong in this world, Ava,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low.
“I know that,” I murmured, pressing the antiseptic wipe against the wound.
Luca hissed sharply through his teeth, his hand shooting out to grip my thigh to steady himself. The heat of his large palm seared straight through the fabric of my trousers. An intense, electric current shot through my lower belly, leaving me momentarily paralyzed.
Neither of us moved.
Our faces were barely six inches apart. I could smell the peat smoke of his bourbon and the raw masculinity of his skin. His eyes dropped to my lips, lingering there with an intensity that made the room spin.
“Why didn't you let them take the ledgers, Luca?” I asked, my voice barely a breath. “Four million dollars is nothing to you. Why fight a war over this?”
Luca’s thumb moved slowly against my leg, a gentle, unconscious caress that made my skin prickle with goosebumps.
“It was never about the four million,” Luca whispered, his fingers tightening slightly. “Jake took something that belonged to the family. In my world, if you let a thief walk away with your property, you invite every hyena in the city to tear your throat out.”
“And what am I?” I whispered, my heart thumping wildly against my ribs. “Property?”
Luca’s hand slid slowly up from my thigh, tracing the curve of my waist until his palm rested against the side of my neck, his thumb brushing across my jawline.
“No,” Luca said, his voice husky, thick with uncharacteristic emotion. “You are the only clean thing in this entire damn city.”
He leaned forward. His breath grazed my mouth.
Every instinct screamed at me to pull away, to remember who he was, to remember the blood on his hands. But my body betrayed me. I leaned in, my eyelids fluttering shut—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
A sharp, shrill siren cut through the room.
The crimson emergency lights along the ceiling flashed to life. The heavy steel shutters over the grand library windows began slamming down with the hydraulic roar of industrial machinery.
Luca was on his feet in an instant, pushing me behind him, his right hand drawing a black semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster with terrifying speed.
The door burst open. Dante stood there, tactical vest strapped on, an assault rifle clutched in his hands.
“Boss!” Dante shouted over the rising wail of the alarms. “Perimeter sensor sector four just tripped. A vehicle smashed the south security gate!”
Luca’s face shifted instantly from the vulnerable man who had almost kissed me into a ruthless general of war.
“Where is the girl?” Luca roared.
“Safe room B with Mrs. Chen,” Dante yelled back. “Martha is with them!”
Luca cocked his weapon with a sharp metallic clack. He looked down at me, his eyes blazing with deadly resolve.
“Stay behind Dante. Do not move. Do not make a sound.”
“Luca—!” I screamed, grabbing his arm.
He ripped his arm away, his eyes locking onto mine with ruthless clarity. “If anyone comes through that door who isn't me or Dante, Ava… you take this.”
He shoved a small, silver .38 revolver into my trembling hands.
May you like
“Aim for the center of the chest. Pull the trigger until it clicks. Do you hear me?”
Before I could answer, the lights inside the mansion snapped off, plunging us into total, suffocating darkness.
