Chapter 5 - Shadows at La Terrazza
La Terrazza sat atop an exclusive high-rise overlooking the Mississippi River. Normally, securing a table required a six-month waitlist and an astronomical bank balance.
Tonight, when the private elevator opened into the penthouse dining room, the restaurant was completely empty.
Soft jazz played over invisible speakers. Flickering candlelight reflected against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, offering a breathtaking, panoramic view of the Minneapolis skyline, the bridges lit up like diamond necklaces across the dark water.
And sitting at the center table, a bottle of vintage Barolo already breathing in a crystal decanter, was Leandro.
He stood as I walked toward him. He had traded the tuxedo for a tailored charcoal three-piece suit that made him look commanding, elegant, and dangerously powerful. When his gaze swept over me, my breath caught.
I was wearing a simple, tailored navy-blue wrap dress that flattered my curves, paired with low heels and silver drop earrings.
"Clare," he said, stepping forward to pull out my chair. "You look extraordinary."
"You bought out the entire restaurant," I said, sitting down as he gently pushed the chair in. "And you essentially bought my company today."
Leandro walked back to his seat, a ghost of an amused smile on his lips. "I didn't buy out the restaurant. I own the building. I simply asked the staff to take the night off after prepping our meal so we could speak without twenty pairs of eyes watching every forkful."
"And the four-hundred-thousand-dollar contract?"
"That," Leandro said, pouring wine into my glass, "was an investment. I reviewed your portfolio this afternoon, Clare. You have an exceptional eye for structural balance and minimalist elegance. My communications team has been producing mediocre work for two years. Hiring you wasn't charity; it was long overdue."
"You did it to protect me from Blair."
"I did it because Blair Kensington thought she could hurt you to get at me," he admitted, his hazel eye darkening with a chilling intensity. "I do not allow people to use innocent bystanders as collateral. Especially not someone who showed me kindness."
I took a slow sip of the Barolo. It was rich, velvety, and complex. "You don't have to repay every kind word with an empire, Leandro."
"In my world, kindness is the rarest currency there is," he said quietly. "Everything else can be bought or taken by force."
A private waiter entered silently, serving exquisite plates of seared scallops over saffron risotto, before bowing and vanishing back toward the kitchen.
As we ate, the initial tension melted away. Leandro proved to be a captivating conversationalist. He had traveled the world, possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of classical architecture, and had a razor-sharp, dry wit that kept me laughing through the meal. For long stretches of time, I completely forgot about the rumors, the guns, and the scars. I saw only a brilliant, intensely lonely man who had lived under a heavy mantle of responsibility for far too long.
"Tell me about the accident," I said gently, when the coffee was served. "You said last night that men tried to kill you. What really happened four years ago?"
Leandro leaned back, swirling the remnants of his wine. The candlelight cast deep shadows across the scarred half of his face.
"It was December," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "A blizzard had shut down the highways. My younger brother, Marco, and I were returning from a meeting in Duluth. We hit a patch of ice on a curve—or so the police report said."
He paused, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticked.
"The brakes had been cut," he continued. "The steering column had been tampered with. We rolled three times down an embankment into a frozen ravine. The fuel tank ignited. Marco... Marco didn't survive the impact."
Pain, raw and heavy, flashed across his eyes.
"I was trapped beneath the dashboard," Leandro whispered. "The fire spread quickly. By the time I managed to kick the door open and crawl out into the snow, the damage was done. The people who orchestrated it thought I died in that fire. They moved to divide my family's assets before my body was even cold."
"Who were they?" I asked, my heart aching for the grief buried beneath his stone facade.
"A coalition," Leandro said coldly. "Rival syndicates backed by corrupt politicians. Men like Wesley Harkort’s father, who financed the logistics, and the Morozov family, who supplied the muscle. When I walked back into the boardroom three months later, half-healed and wrapped in bandages, they looked at me like I had crawled out of hell itself."
"Because you did," I whispered, reaching across the white tablecloth.
Without thinking, I laid my hand over his.
Leandro froze. His gaze dropped to our joined hands. For a second, I thought he might pull away. Instead, his fingers slowly turned upward, intertwining with mine, holding on with a quiet, desperate intensity.
"They thought they had destroyed me," he murmured, his gaze lifting to meet mine. "Instead, they simply stripped away everything that was soft about me. Until last night."
The air between us grew thick, charged with an undeniable, magnetic pull. He leaned forward slightly, his hazel eye searching mine.
"You don't look at my scars with horror," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You don't look at me with pity. Why, Clare?"
"Because your scars tell me you're a survivor," I replied softly, my heart beating frantically against my ribs. "They tell me you fought through the dark to come back. There's nothing ugly about strength, Leandro."
He stared at me, his breath hitching. He raised his free hand, his knuckles gently grazing along my cheekbone, his touch surprisingly soft for a man who commanded an underworld.
"You have no idea how dangerous it is to say things like that to a man like me," he whispered.
"Maybe I don't care," I answered, leaning slightly into his touch.
Before he could speak, his phone buzzed violently on the table. Once. Twice. Three times.
The spell shattered.
Leandro’s eyes cleared, returning to their sharp, alert state. He looked at the screen, and his expression turned instantly to ice.
"Excuse me for a moment," he said, rising from the table. He walked over to the glass window and answered the call.
I couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, but Leandro’s responses were clipped and lethal.
"Where?" he demanded.
A pause.
"Did they touch her mother's house?"
My blood ran cold. *My mother's house?*
Leandro listened for another five seconds, his hand gripping the back of his chair so hard the wood groaned under the pressure.
"Secure the perimeter immediately," Leandro commanded. "Send a team to Saint Paul. Move Mrs. Donnelly to the safe house in Stillwater. Do it now."
He hung up, turning toward me. His face was entirely devoid of color, the scars standing out in stark, violent relief.
"Leandro," I gasped, standing up from the table, my knees shaking. "What did you just say? My mother?"
"Clare," he said, crossing the room in three long strides and grabbing my shoulders. "Listen to me very carefully. Wesley Harkort’s father realized his credit line was cut today. He panicked. And the Morozovs have decided to send a message before we move against them."
"What did they do?!"
"They sent two men to your mother’s street twenty minutes ago," Leandro said, his voice chillingly steady despite the chaos. "My surveillance team intercepted them before they reached her porch. She is unharmed. She doesn't even know what happened."
The room tilted. I felt dizzy, my chest constricting as panic seized my throat. "Oh god... oh god, my mom..."
"She is safe, Clare. I swear it to you on my brother’s memory," Leandro said fiercely, pulling me against his chest. His arms wrapped around me like steel bands, holding me upright as my legs threatened to give way. "Marco’s team is escorting her to a secure estate right now. But you cannot go home tonight."
I buried my face in his lapel, tears stinging my eyes, breathing in the scent of cedar and rain. "Where am I supposed to go?"
Leandro rested his chin against the top of my head, his voice low, steady, and utterly lethal.
May you like
"You are coming with me to my home," he said. "The war has started, Clare. And from this moment on, you stay by my side."
***
