Chapter 2 - The Ghost in the Mirror
The silence in the restaurant was no longer just heavy—it was suffocating.
Elina stared past the man’s broad shoulder at the mirrored wall behind the bar. The black-and-white photograph in its ornate silver frame showed a woman standing beneath a canopy of cherry blossoms. She wore a tailored coat, her chin tilted up, a soft, secretive smile gracing her lips. But it wasn't the scenery that made Elina’s blood run cold.
It was the face.
The arch of her eyebrows. The slight dimple tucked into the left side of her cheek. The wide, hazel eyes that looked like they were holding a secret only she understood.
It was her. Or a ghost who had stolen her skin.
"Who is she?" Elina’s voice was barely a whisper, swallowed by the hum of the air conditioning and the pounding of her own heart.
Dante Sterling—the man holding the restaurant hostage with nothing more than his presence—didn't turn around to look at the photo. His dark eyes remained fixed on Elina’s face, tracking every twitch of her lips, every sudden flare of her nostrils as her breathing quickened.
"That," Dante said, his low voice vibrating against her ribcage, "was Sophia. My wife."
"Was?" Elina swallowed hard. The baby in her arms, little Leo, squirmed closer, burying his soft forehead against the dip between her shoulder and collarbone. He let out another quiet, contented sigh, his tiny fingers tugging rhythmically on her silver necklace.
"She died ten months ago," Dante said coldly. "The night Leo was born."
Elina felt her knees go weak. Ten months ago.
Ten months ago, Elina had woken up in a charity hospital on the south side of San Francisco after a hit-and-run accident that had wiped out three weeks of her memory. The doctors told her she had suffered severe blunt-force trauma, a fractured pelvis, and internal bleeding. They told her she was lucky to be alive. They told her there had been no baby—that the blood on her clothes was from her shattered liver and torn muscle tissue.
“You were never pregnant, Miss Valdez,” the clinic doctor had told her with a bland, pitying smile. “You’re just confused from the concussion.”
She had spent the last ten months working double shifts, paying off medical debts that weren't hers, starving so she could afford a leaky studio apartment in the worst part of town, believing she was completely alone in the world.
"Put him down," one of the bodyguards commanded, taking a step forward. His hand rested openly on his hip, pushing back his jacket to reveal the brushed-steel butt of a semi-automatic weapon. "Boss, this isn't safe. She looks like a setup. The rival families—"
"Shut up, Marco," Dante cut him off without raising his head. His gaze hadn't left Elina’s face for a single second. "Look at him."
Marco hesitated, looking down at the baby.
Leo was fast asleep. His tiny, pale eyelids were closed, his long eyelashes casting delicate shadows over his chubby cheeks. His breathing was slow and rhythmic—a sound none of Dante's guards had heard in nearly three weeks. The child had spent twenty-one days screaming until his throat was raw, refusing bottle after bottle, rejecting four different high-priced private pediatricians and a team of live-in nurses.
Now, he was snoring softly against a broke waitress’s chest.
"What is your full name?" Dante asked, standing up from the leather booth.
He was taller than she realized. Standing at full height, his broad shoulders blocked out the harsh lights of the restaurant floor. The scent of rain, expensive tobacco, and cedarwood wrapped around her.
"Elina," she stammered, holding Leo tighter. "Elina Valdez."
"Where were you born?"
"I... I don't know. I was adopted. In Sacramento."
Dante stepped closer. He reached out with one long, calloused finger. For a terrifying second, Elina thought he was going to touch her neck, but his hand moved past her, gently tucking a stray lock of dark copper hair behind her ear. His knuckles brushed against her skin, hot and electric.
"You're coming with me," Dante said.
"What?" Elina’s eyes went wide. She looked back toward the kitchen doors, where her manager was peering through the round window, his face pale with horror. "No! I have a shift! I have to work! I can't just leave!"
"Marco," Dante said calmly, stepping around the table. "Pay the manager fifty thousand dollars for the inconvenience. Tell him if Miss Valdez’s name is ever mentioned in this building again, I’ll burn the block to the ground."
"Wait!" Elina gasped as two large men in dark suits stepped up beside her, effectively boxing her in. "You can't do this! This is kidnapping!"
May you like
Dante paused at the door, turning his head slightly. The scar on his cheek caught the amber light of the chandelier, making him look like a phantom from a darker world.
"My son is holding you, Elina," Dante said softly. "Which means you belong to me until I figure out why you have my dead wife's face."
