Chapter 3 - The Lies of Voss Tower
The mountain air outside was biting and cold, but inside the private residence Declan had seized three miles outside Asheville, a roaring fire crackled in a grand stone hearth.
It wasn't a cold, sleek penthouse like Voss Tower. It was a secluded timber manor hidden deep within a private pine forest, surrounded by twenty armed men who moved like wraiths through the mist. Gavin Roarke personally stood guard at the front gate, ensuring no one—not Calloway, not the federal authorities, not even the local police—knew the king of Chicago was in North Carolina.
I sat in a wide leather armchair by the fire, wrapped in a thick cashmere blanket that smelled faintly of Declan’s expensive cedar-and-clove cologne.
Declan sat across from me on a low wooden bench. He had stripped off his coat, revealing a simple black sweater. He had spent the last hour silently making sure I was warm, bringing me hot herbal tea, and pacing the room like a caged panther whenever I went quiet.
“Drink the tea, sweetheart,” he said gently, pointing to the steaming mug in my hands. “Dr. Vance said chamomile is good for your blood pressure.”
I looked at him over the rim of the cup. “You called Dr. Vance?”
“I bought Dr. Vance’s entire private practice fifteen minutes after Gavin confirmed your location,” Declan said flatly, without a hint of irony. “He’s currently on a private jet flying to the local hospital in Asheville. Nobody touches you or our baby except the best doctors in the country.”
I let out a soft, exasperated sigh, setting the cup on the side table. “Declan, you can’t just buy hospitals and doctors.”
“I can, and I will,” he replied, his hazel-grey eyes darkening. “I lost twenty-six days of your pregnancy, Amelia. Twenty-six days where I didn't know if you were eating, if you were safe, or if our child was healthy. I nearly burned Chicago to the ground looking for you.”
I leaned back into the soft leather, my hand resting over the gentle rise of my stomach. The baby kicked—a tiny, fluttery movement that felt like a butterfly trapped beneath my skin.
I gasped softly.
Declan’s posture instantly shifted. In less than a second, he was off the bench, kneeling at the side of my chair, his eyes wild with concern. “What is it? Are you in pain? Is it a contraction?”
“No,” I whispered, looking down at his trembling hands resting near my knees. “The baby just kicked.”
Declan froze. The ruthless syndicate boss who had executed three mob captains in a single night looked completely terrified.
Slowly, hesitatingly, he lifted his right hand. He looked up into my eyes, silently asking for permission that he felt he didn't deserve.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and took his heavy, calloused hand, guiding it beneath my sweater and resting his broad palm flat against my bump.
The moment his skin made contact with the warmth of my belly, the baby kicked again—a firm, clear knock against his palm.
Declan let out a sharp, shuddering breath. His head dropped forward until his forehead rested against my knee, his broad shoulders shaking silently as he wept. He held his hand against my stomach as if it were the only anchor keeping him anchored to the earth.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice buried in the fabric of my sweater. “I’m so sorry, Amelia... I let them terrify you. I let you think for one second that you weren't my entire life.”
I slid my fingers through his dark, thick hair, feeling the heavy heat of his body, the absolute sincerity of his remorse. The wall I had spent four months building around my heart didn't shatter—it dissolved, melted by the heat of his tears.
“Tell me everything, Declan,” I whispered softly, stroking his hair. “No more secrets. No more mob politics. Tell me what happened at Voss Tower.”
Declan lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed but fierce with truth.
“Don Calloway was bankrupt,” Declan explained, his voice low and steady. “He was trying to use Savannah to force a merger with the Voss syndicate. He threatened to go to the federal prosecutor with forged ledgers that would have put my entire executive team in prison for life if I didn't announce the engagement.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked.
“Because Calloway had a mole inside my inner circle,” Declan admitted grimly. “I didn't know who to trust. I was playing a three-dimensional game of chess, trying to locate the mole, secure my assets, and build an airtight trap for Calloway without risking your life. When Savannah came into my office that day, she was wearing a wire connected to her father’s car outside.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, cracked silver recorder, setting it on the table between us.
“The line you heard—‘Amelia is a civilian, she’ll be resolved quietly’—was part of a coded script,” Declan said, looking straight into my eyes. “In our private communications, ‘resolved quietly’ meant Gavin was supposed to escort you to my private villa in Lake Como, Italy, under full diplomatic security. You were supposed to be on a plane that night, far away from the bloodbath I was planning for Calloway.”
“But I left before Gavin could reach my studio,” I realized, my heart dropping.
“You left,” Declan agreed quietly. “And when I went to your apartment and found the front door open, the ultrasound ash in the fireplace, and your phone on the floor... I lost my mind. I cancelled the trap. I dragged Don Calloway out of his mansion by his throat in broad daylight, broken his jaw, and told him that if anything happened to you, I would slaughter every man who carried his name.”
He took my hands, wrapping his large, warm fingers tightly around mine.
“The war is over, Amelia,” Declan swore softly. “Calloway is ruined. His family fled to Europe. Chicago is entirely under my control. But none of it matters—not the territory, not the money, not the empire—if I don't have you and our child.”
I looked into his eyes, seeing the absolute truth of his words. The terror that had pursued me through the mountains of North Carolina was gone, replaced by a deep, resonant certainty.
He hadn't betrayed me. He had been fighting a war to protect me.
“I’m not going back to Chicago yet, Declan,” I said firmly, testing his boundaries.
May you like
Declan didn't argue. He didn't order his men to pack my bags. He simply leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the knuckle of my ring finger.
“Then we stay in the mountains,” Declan replied softly. “As long as you want. I’ll rule Chicago from this living room, as long as I get to sleep beside you at night.”
