Chapter 9 - Secrets in the Dark
The penthouse was quiet when we returned. Elena had been given a private guest suite on the second level, completely exhausted, collapsing into sleep under the care of Ethan’s private physician and mild sedatives.
Sophie, completely oblivious to the chaos that had just unfolded across Chicago, was fast asleep in the nursery crib. I stood over her for nearly an hour, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, touching her soft cheek to convince myself that she was truly, undeniably safe.
When I finally walked out into the dimly lit living room, Ethan was sitting on the leather sofa, his tuxedo jacket discarded, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He was holding a damp cloth against a bloody gash along his left forearm where a shard of flying glass had sliced through his flesh.
I didn't say a word. I walked into the adjoining bathroom, found the first-aid kit Dr. Evans had left, and brought it back to the couch.
I sat down beside him. “Give me your arm.”
Ethan looked at me, a faint, amused tilt to his lips. “I have private doctors on retainer for this, Rachel.”
“Your private doctors aren't here right now,” I replied softly, taking his wrist. “And I’ve patched up enough line cooks in East L.A. to know how to clean a cut. Hold still.”
He didn't pull away. He let me clean the wound with antiseptic. He didn't even flinch when the stinging alcohol bit into his skin. His eyes never left my face, tracking every breath, every flicker of emotion in my eyes.
“Why did you do it, Ethan?” I asked quietly, wrapping sterile gauze around his arm. “Giving the twelve million back to Moretti. You could have kept it. You could have eliminated Julian and kept the money. That’s what men like you do.”
“Men like me?” he echoed softly.
“Gangsters. Mob bosses. The King of Chicago.”
Ethan let out a low, gravelly sigh, leaning his head back against the sofa cushions. The city lights below twinkled through the glass, casting silver highlights across his sharp cheekbones.
“My father was the monster the newspapers write about,” Ethan said, his voice laced with decades of suppressed pain. “He ruled through terror, fear, and blood. Ten years ago, my older brother tried to walk away from the business. He got married, had a little girl named Claire. He wanted a quiet life in Michigan.”
My hands froze against his bandage. I looked up at him.
“My father considered it treason,” Ethan continued, his jaw tightening into rigid granite. “He sent men to bring my brother back. There was an argument at the house. A stray shot went through the bedroom door. Claire was four months old.”
A cold shiver raced through my veins. “Oh, God...”
“I was twenty-four,” Ethan murmured, his voice cracking slightly before settling back into iron resolve. “I took this family over that night. Not because I wanted power, Rachel. But because if I didn't hold the leash, the rabid dogs in this city would tear every innocent person to shreds. I became the monster so nobody like Claire would ever die in my shadow again.”
He reached out with his uninjured hand, gently cupping my chin, lifting my face toward his. The intensity in his dark eyes was overwhelming—a mixture of terrifying power and raw, aching tenderness.
“When I saw you on that plane,” he whispered, his thumb caressing my lower lip, “defending that little girl with nothing but your bare hands and your pride... I saw everything this world tries to destroy. And I swore to God I wouldn't let them touch you.”
My breath hitched. My heart hammered against my ribs, but this time, it wasn't fear. It was something deeper, hotter, and infinitely more dangerous.
May you like
“Ethan...” I whispered.
He didn't kiss me. He simply leaned forward until his forehead rested against mine, his warm breath fanning across my skin, holding me in the quiet dark as if I were the only real thing left in his world.
