Chapter 3 - The Storm Breaks
The elevator ride down to the private garage was the longest three minutes of Emilio Verona’s life.
He didn't wait for his driver. He snatched the keys to his armored Mercedes SUV from the peg beside the private elevator, slammed through the security doors, and hit the ignition button before his seatbelt was even buckled. The engine roared to life with a guttural, predatory growl that matched the dark, suffocating rage tearing through his chest.
He tore out of the underground parking structure, the tires screaming against the slick concrete as he merged directly into evening traffic on Wacker Drive. Rain had begun to fall over Chicago, a heavy, cold Midwestern downpour that smeared the city lights into streaks of neon red and yellow against his windshield.
He drove like a man possessed. Red lights were ignored. Swerving around commuter buses and taxis, he pushed the heavy vehicle to its absolute limits, his mind replaying the feed from camera three over and over again on a terrifying loop.
“Love is for weaklings...” “I pinched my own skin...” “A broken man is much easier to manage...”
Every word Regina had spoken was a hot needle pressed directly into his eyes. But worse than Regina’s deceit was his own blind, arrogant foolishness. He, Emilio Verona, who pridefully considered himself ten steps ahead of every federal prosecutor and syndicate boss in the country, had been manipulated like a foolish child by a woman using nothing more than a coat of lip gloss and a fake bruise.
And who had paid the price for his stupidity?
A twenty-four-year-old woman whose only crime was loving his motherless babies. A woman he had spent the morning trying to break.
He smashed his palm against the steering wheel, letting out a raw, animalistic shout that rattled the interior of the SUV. “Faster, you piece of shit, faster!” he growled at the road.
When he finally pulled up to the iron gates of his Gold Coast estate, he didn't wait for the security guard to check his vehicle. He slammed his foot on the gas and blew past the opening gates, spraying gravel across the manicured front lawn before coming to a screeching halt directly in front of the grand stone steps.
He threw the door open and stepped out into the pouring rain. He didn't care that his custom charcoal suit was instantly soaked. He didn't care that his hair was plastered to his forehead.
He kicked the massive oak front doors open with enough force to echo through the towering three-story foyer like a cannon shot.
The house was dead silent.
“Emilio?”
Regina’s voice floated down from the top of the grand marble staircase. She was standing near the entrance to the family room, her cream dress pristine, her hair immaculately styled. She held a small crystal glass of white wine in one hand, looking down at him with an expression of sweet, domestic concern.
“Darling, you’re home early,” she said, taking a delicate step down the stairs. “And you’re completely soaked! What happened? Is everything alright with the North Side crews?”
Emilio stood at the base of the stairs, water dripping from the hem of his jacket onto the polished floor. He looked up at her, his dark eyes hollow, terrifyingly devoid of any human warmth.
Regina paused on the fourth step from the top. The smile on her face flickered for a fraction of a second, a tiny crack in her armor as she registered the predatory posture of the man standing below her.
“Emilio?” she tried again, her voice dropping an octave, attempting to sound fragile. “You’re scaring me.”
“Where is she?” Emilio asked. His voice wasn't loud. It was low, raspy, and vibrating with a dangerous, lethal frequency.
Regina swallowed hard, quickly regaining her composure. She put on her best long-suffering expression, letting out a small, delicate sigh.
“If you’re talking about the nanny... Emilio, I’m so glad you’re home. I had to step in. She was being completely uncooperative. I caught her raising her hand to Gianna again, and when I tried to intervene, she—”
“Shut up,” Emilio said.
The words were so cold, so sharp, that Regina physically recoiled as if she had been slapped.
“Emilio!” she gasped, her eyes wide with aristocratic indignation. “How dare you speak to me like that! I am your fiancée! I am trying to protect your children from that lower-class—”
“I said,” Emilio repeated, taking one slow, heavy step up the marble staircase, “shut your mouth.”
Regina’s face went pale. For the first time since he had known her, genuine fear flared in her eyes. She took a step back, her heels clicking nervously against the stone.
“Where is Julieta?” he demanded, his voice rising now, filling the vast foyer until the crystal chandelier above them rattled.
Before Regina could answer, the double doors of the kitchen opened down the hall. Agnes, the elderly head housekeeper, stepped out, her hands shaking as she wiped them on her apron.
“Mr. Verona,” Agnes squeaked, her voice trembling. “Miss Julieta is in the nursery, sir. She... she locked herself inside with the babies. Miss Ashford was trying to have the security guards throw her out into the rain, but Julieta wouldn't open the door.”
Emilio turned his gaze back to Regina. She looked like a trapped animal now, her eyes darting toward the front entrance as if calculating whether she could run past him.
“Stay right there,” Emilio told Regina. It wasn't a request. It was an order from a man who commanded three hundred armed soldiers across the Midwest. “If you move off those stairs before I come back down, I will have Mario put you in the trunk of a car and drive you to a farm in Indiana. Do you understand me?”
Regina froze, the crystal wine glass shaking violently in her manicured hand. She couldn't speak. She could only nod once, her face drained of all color.
Emilio turned and walked briskly up the remaining stairs, his heavy leather shoes leaving wet footprints along the plush runner. He turned down the west wing corridor toward the nursery, his chest aching with a terrifying mix of fury and anticipation.
He reached the heavy white door of the nursery. It was locked from the inside, just as Agnes had said.
He knocked gently. “Julieta?”
Silence from within.
“Julieta, it’s Emilio,” he said, his voice dropping the harsh, terrifying edge it had carried moments ago, softening into something almost pleading. “Please. Open the door.”
Inside, he heard a small, muffled sob, followed by the soft sound of a chair being dragged across the carpet. A moment later, the heavy brass lock clicked.
The door swung inward.
Julieta stood in the opening. Her hair was somewhat disheveled, a few strands clinging to her damp cheeks. Her gray uniform was wrinkled, and her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from crying. Behind her, in the dimly lit room, Noah and Gianna were fast asleep in their cribs, safe, warm, and blissfully unaware of the storm raging outside their door.
Julieta looked up at Emilio, her shoulders slumping as if she had finally run out of energy to fight. She lowered her head, expecting the hammer to fall.
“I didn’t hurt them, Mr. Verona,” she whispered, her voice broken and raw. “I swear on my mother’s soul, I never touched them. You can fire me. You can call the police. But please... please don't let her near them.”
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Emilio looked down at the woman standing before him. He saw the faint red marks on her arm where Regina had grabbed her. He saw the sheer, unadulterated devotion in her eyes.
And for the first time in four years, the formidable Emilio Verona fell to his knees.
