Chapter 5 - Bloodlines and Betrayal
The penthouse atop the Moretti Tower in Tribeca was a fortress disguised as a monument to minimalist luxury. Triple-pane ballistic glass overlooked the sprawling, neon-soaked grid of Manhattan. Polished dark hardwood floors, brushed bronze accents, and soaring twenty-foot ceilings gave the space the cold, untouchable air of an ivory tower.
Paige sat on an ivory leather sofa, wrapped in a heavy cashmere blanket that smelled of cedar and Landon’s expensive woodsmoke-and-bergamot cologne. A mug of untouched tea sat steaming on the marble coffee table before her.
Across the room, young Leo was sitting on the floor with a set of wooden building blocks. He looked up every few seconds, his wide eyes tracking Paige with quiet curiosity, as if he expected her to vanish into thin air.
Landon entered the living area, having shed his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to expose corded forearms marked by faint, jagged scars from past skirmishes. He carried a heavy manila dossier, dropping it onto the coffee table beside her tea.
“Drink your tea,” he instructed, taking a seat in the leather armchair opposite her. “You’re shivering.”
“I’m shivering because I’m surrounded by armed killers,” Paige replied coldly, though she pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
Landon smiled faintly—a razor-thin smirk that held no humor. “Those armed killers are the only reason Antonio Rossi’s hitmen aren't currently dragging your body out of the East River. You should show a little gratitude.”
“Gratitude? You kicked down my door and kidnapped me!”
“I extracted you from an unfortified target zone,” Landon corrected calmly. “There is a distinction.”
He pointed to the dossier. “Look at it.”
Paige hesitated, then reached out with trembling fingers and flipped open the cardboard folder.
Inside were surveillance photographs. Grainy, long-lens images of her walking to the subway, buying groceries, cleaning tables at The Gilded Spoon. But attached to each photo was another set of pictures: men sitting in idling black sedans, men with heavy Slavic builds and distinctive tattoos on their necks.
“Rossi hired the Bratva to do his tracking,” Landon explained, his gaze hardening. “They narrowed your radius down to Astoria three days ago. If I hadn't heard you sing that song tonight, they would have kicked your door in by midnight. And they wouldn't have brought you tea.”
Paige swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out across her collarbones. “How did they find me? I changed everything. My name, my appearance, my habits. I didn't touch my accounts.”
“You made one mistake,” Landon said. “You cared about my nephew.”
Paige looked over at Leo. The little boy had stopped playing with his blocks. He got up on wobbly legs, padded across the thick Persian rug, and stopped right in front of Paige.
He didn't say a word. He simply climbed onto the sofa beside her, curled his small body against her hip, and rested his head against her arm.
Paige’s breath caught in her throat. Her maternal instincts, buried beneath years of paranoia and fear, surged to the surface. Her arm moved automatically, wrapping around the little boy’s shoulders to draw him close. Leo sighed, his eyelids drooping with immediate, absolute trust.
Landon watched them. For a brief second, the icy, unyielding mask he wore for the world slipped, revealing a man hollowed out by grief, carrying the weight of a broken family entirely on his shoulders.
“He hasn't slept through the night since Marco died,” Landon murmured, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. “He doesn't speak. The doctors call it selective mutism caused by severe psychological trauma. But tonight, when you sang to him, his vitals steadied. He recognized you, Paige.”
“I used to visit him when he was a baby,” Paige admitted, looking down at the dark curls resting against her side. “Before the war started. Marco and my father wanted to merge the families. They wanted an alliance through marriage.”
Landon’s eyes flashed with a dangerous, possessive light. “Marco was already married to Leo’s mother. The alliance wasn't for him.”
Paige froze. She looked up, meeting Landon’s piercing gaze.
The room grew suffocatingly still.
“It was for me,” Landon said slowly. “Salvatore Falcone offered your hand to *me*. Before the Rossi syndicate struck, before the car bomb in Rome, before the entire world burned down. You were meant to be my wife, Paige.”
Paige’s heart hammered against her ribs. “That was a lifetime ago. That was a political arrangement between two old men who are now rotting in the ground.”
Landon leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, closing the distance between them until she could see the gold flecks in his dark irises.
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“In my world, promises don't die just because the men who made them did,” Landon said, his voice a low, commanding purr. “You belong in this house. You belong under my protection. And before this is over, you will help me tear Antonio Rossi apart piece by piece.”
***
