Chapter 2 - “She Decides”
Derek’s polished Italian leather shoes came to a halt precisely three inches from the edge of the mahogany desk.
Beneath the heavy wood, Emily curled her fingers into the carpet. She barely dared to breathe. Her lungs burned. The bruise on her wrist pulsed with every beat of her frantic heart. For three years, that sound—the rhythmic, confident clack of Derek’s dress shoes—had signaled whether she was allowed to smile, whether she had spoken too loudly, or whether she would spend the night locked in their guest bathroom listening to him tell her what a failure she was.
“My wife has a habit of overreacting,” Derek said, his voice dripping with that polished, country-club charm that had fooled her parents, their friends, and every cop who had ever looked the other way. “She had a glass of wine too many. She’s embarrassed. If you’ll just let me grab her, we’ll be out of your hair, sir.”
Derek reached down. His manicured hand dipped below the edge of the desk, fingers curved like talons, reaching blindly for Emily’s bare ankle.
*Clack.*
A heavy Montblanc fountain pen slammed down onto the green leather blotter above.
Derek froze.
From where Emily lay curled, she could see Alexander Moretti’s long legs, clad in bespoke charcoal wool. He hadn't shifted an inch. He hadn't flinched. The air in the room suddenly felt twenty degrees colder.
“Did I invite you in?” Alexander’s voice was velvet over jagged iron. It wasn’t loud. He didn’t shout. But it carried the kind of quiet, predatory authority that made the hair on Emily’s arms stand straight up.
Derek let out a dry, condescending chuckle. “Look, buddy, I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m Derek Carter. Carter Capital. My father sits on the governor’s board. My wife is hiding under your desk like a spoiled child, and—”
“Marco.”
Alexander didn’t even look up from his desk.
In less than a second, the man who had been standing by the wall moved. Emily heard the sickening crunch of Derek’s arm being twisted behind his back, followed by the muffled *thud* of Derek’s face hitting the edge of the heavy walnut doorframe.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?! Do you know who I am? Get your hands off me!” Derek sputtered, the veneer of civility shattering instantly.
Alexander stood up.
He was towering—well over six-foot-three, with broad shoulders that filled out his tailored suit and eyes the color of a winter sky over Lake Michigan. He walked slowly around the desk. Every step was deliberate, silent, lethal.
He didn't look at Derek. He looked down into the shadowy hollow beneath the desk.
His gaze softened by a fraction of a millimeter as it locked onto Emily’s terrified face.
“Come out,” he said gently. He extended a large, calloused hand toward her.
Emily hesitated. Trust was a foreign concept to her; for thirty-six months, a man's outstretched hand had only meant pain or control. But when she looked into Alexander’s steady eyes, she saw no cruelty. Only an unyielding fortress.
Trembling, she placed her small, ice-cold hand into his.
Alexander’s grip was warm and immovable. With effortless strength, he lifted her to her feet, supporting her waist as her barefoot touched the floor. He positioned her behind his broad frame before Derek could lay another eye on her.
Derek was pinned against the wall by Marco’s forearm. His hair was disheveled, his silk tie crooked, and his face was red with fury.
“Emily!” Derek snarled, his eyes bulging. “Get over here right now! Stop playing games! You’re humiliating yourself! You’re humiliating *me*!”
Emily flinched, shrinking instinctively behind Alexander’s shoulder. That voice had kept her prisoner for years.
Alexander turned his cold eyes onto Derek. “You touched her.”
“She is my *wife*!” Derek screamed. “What happens between us is none of your damn business! Tell your thug to let me go, or I’ll have the CPD burn this building to the ground!”
Alexander tilted his head, almost amused by the threat. “You think the CPD works for your father, Derek? You haven't checked who owns the precinct on 4th Street lately, have you?”
Derek’s breath hitched. A flicker of genuine panic entered his eyes as he finally took in Alexander’s face, the crest on his cufflinks, and the absolute lack of fear in the room.
“Moretti…” Derek whispered, the blood draining from his face. “You’re… Alexander Moretti.”
“So you do have a brain,” Alexander murmured. He took a single step toward Derek. “Now, here is how this works. You have thirty seconds to leave this building before Marco takes your fingers one by one. And as for your wife…”
Alexander glanced back over his shoulder at Emily.
“She decides.”
Emily’s heart stopped. *She decides.* No one had asked what she wanted since she was twenty-one years old.
Derek stared at her, desperation leaking through his teeth. “Emily, baby, think about what you’re doing. You have nowhere to go. No money. No family who will take you in over me. Come home. We’ll talk about this.”
Emily looked at the man who had torn her spirit to shreds. Then she looked at Alexander Moretti, a man feared by the entire underworld of Chicago, who had stood between her and danger without asking for a single thing in return.
Emily lifted her chin. For the first time in three years, her voice did not shake.
“I am never coming home with you again.”
Alexander’s lips twitched with the faintest shadow of approval. He turned back to Marco.
May you like
“Throw him into the alley.”
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