Chapter 4 - The Kingdom at Her Feet
Lorenzo stood motionless, holding the paper in his hands.
The ruthless titan of Chicago’s underworld—a man who had survived assassinations, turf wars, and federal indictments—looked at the black-and-white printout as if it were written in an alien tongue. His jaw tightened so hard I could hear the grinding of his teeth across the room.
“Leave us,” he commanded.
Dr. Marcus didn’t hesitate; he vanished down the corridor. Sal stepped back into the doorway, looked at me with wide, respectful eyes, and gently closed the double doors.
We were alone again.
“Lorenzo...” I began, my voice trembling.
He dropped the report onto the desk. Then he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, running a hand over his face. When he opened them, the cold detachment was gone. In its place was a storm of raw, unadulterated fury—and something else that looked dangerously like regret.
“For three years,” he said, his voice dropping into a register that made the floor vibrate. “For three years, my daughter has lived in a freezing apartment while I slept in a twelve-bedroom estate with heated floors. For three years, she asked for a father, while I sat at the head of a banquet table drinking scotch alone.”
“I was trying to keep her safe!” I cried out, stepping toward him, all my fear swallowed by maternal instinct. “Julian told me you had enemies inside your own house! He told me the car bombing that almost took you out was ordered by someone close to you. If I had walked in here with a newborn baby three years ago, they would have poisoned her bottle or run us off the road!”
Lorenzo stared at me. The harsh lines around his mouth softened, if only by a fraction.
“You’re right,” he whispered. “Julian was right. If they knew about her then, she would be dead.”
He suddenly walked past me, pulling open the door. “Come.”
“Where?”
“To my daughter.”
We walked up the grand spiral staircase in silence. The mansion was completely still now, save for the guards stationed at every landing, all of whom snapped to rigid attention as Lorenzo passed. Their eyes flicked toward me, no longer seeing a humble maid in a black apron, but a woman who had just altered the balance of power in the Duca empire.
In the nursery suite, the soft glow of a bunny-shaped nightlight illuminated the room.
Sofie was curled up in the middle of a massive four-poster king bed, looking tiny beneath the ivory silk comforter. Her cheeks were pink, her dark curls—so identical to Lorenzo’s—tumbled across the pillow, and her torn stuffed rabbit was tucked tightly beneath her chin.
Lorenzo stopped at the threshold.
For the first time since I had met him, he looked terrified. The man who had walked through gunfire looked like he was afraid to breathe in the presence of this three-foot-tall miracle.
He slowly walked across the thick Persian rug and knelt beside the bed. His large, scarred hand reached out, hovering in the air for several seconds before he dared to touch her. Very gently, his knuckles brushed a strand of dark hair away from her forehead.
Sofie stirred. Her eyelids fluttered open, blinking in the dim light.
“Mr. Lorenzo?” she murmured, rubbing her nose with the back of her wrist.
“Hey,” Lorenzo said softly, his voice catching in his throat.
Sofie sat up slowly, clutching the rabbit. “Did you come for the five minutes?”
A single, ragged breath escaped Lorenzo’s chest. A tear—silent, unbidden—slipped down the cheek of the most feared man in Illinois.
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“No, sweetheart,” Lorenzo said, wrapping both arms around her small shoulders and pulling her gently against his chest. “I came for the rest of your life.”
***
