Chapter 5 - The Glass Fortress
Ethan brought us to a sprawling penthouse spanning the top three floors of a discreet high-rise overlooking Lake Michigan. It wasn't gaudy or decorated with gold-leaf clichés. It was constructed of polished black slate, dark walnut, and towering walls of bulletproof floor-to-ceiling glass that looked down upon the gray, churning lake like the observation deck of an impenetrable fortress.
Within twenty minutes of our arrival, a private pediatrician—a woman named Dr. Evans with kind eyes and quiet professionalism—arrived with two nurses. They brought fresh organic formula, infant clothing with tags still attached, and examined Sophie from head to toe while I stood guard like a feral animal, refusing to sit.
“She’s in excellent health, Ms. Morales,” Dr. Evans said gently, handing Sophie back to me after administering a mild teething gel. “A little dehydrated from the dry cabin air, but her lungs are clear and her vitals are perfect. I’ve left enough specialized supplies in the nursery down the hall to last a month.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, hugging Sophie close. The realization hit me like a slap: A month.
Once the medical team departed, Ethan emerged from the back library. He had changed into a tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He held a glass of dark amber whiskey in one hand and a thin manila folder in the other.
“You’ve prepared for this,” I said, my voice hoarse. “The baby clothes. The crib in that room. You didn’t just bump into me on that plane, did you?”
Ethan took a slow sip of his drink, leaning against the edge of a massive granite counter. “I don't believe in coincidences, Rachel.”
My heart skipped a beat. “You targeted me.”
“Julian’s betrayal wasn’t a secret to me,” Ethan said evenly. “He didn't just steal from the Morettis. He stole two million from my transport accounts along the Saint Lawrence Seaway. I was in Los Angeles tracking the offshore accounts he used to siphon the funds. That’s when my intelligence team picked up his communication with the Morettis—offering your arrival as a target.”
“So you booked seat 4B right next to me.”
“I wanted to see who he was willing to sacrifice,” Ethan admitted. His dark eyes locked onto mine, unblinking. “I expected a collaborator. An accomplice playing the part of an innocent sister. Then you walked onto the plane smelling of diner grease and laundry detergent, counting pennies for an extra bottle of water, carrying a screaming infant with eyes that looked terrified of the entire world.”
My cheeks flushed hot. Part of me felt humiliatingly exposed; the other part felt an undeniable spark of defiant anger. “I am a mother trying to survive. I don't care about your millions or your crime families. I want to see my sister. I want to get Elena out of that penthouse before Julian gets her killed.”
Ethan walked toward me, his strides slow, deliberate, predatory. He stopped just inches away. Up close, I could smell the faint scent of rain, cedar, and high-end bourbon clinging to his skin.
“Elena is currently under house surveillance by Moretti men posing as private security at her Gold Coast apartment,” Ethan said, opening the manila folder and showing me the fresh photographs. “If you knock on that front door, you won’t rescue her. You’ll become the second hostage they use to force Julian to hand over the flash drive with the offshore keys.”
“Then what are you going to do?” My voice broke, tears threatening to spill over again. “You’re just going to keep me locked in this cage while my sister gets butchered?”
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Ethan reached out. His thumb brushed against my cheek, catching a stray tear before it could fall. The touch sent a startling jolt of electricity racing down my spine, so intimate and intense it stole the air from my lungs.
“I’m going to the wedding rehearsal tonight,” Ethan murmured, his thumb lingering against my skin for one breathless second before dropping away. “And you’re coming with me on my arm.”
