Chapter 2 - The Face in the Mirror
The chandelier light caught the silver serpentine tattoo creeping down the man’s right wrist, wrapping around his flesh like a mark of death.
My pulse thundered in my ears, so loud it drowned out the classical quartet playing in the grand ballroom. Five years ago, in a dark alley in Chicago, I had watched that exact serpent mark press a suppressed pistol against a judge’s temple. I had run that night, changing my name, abandoning nursing school, and hiding in the underbelly of New York as a nobody.
And now, wearing a velvet dress worth more than my past five years of rent, standing on the arm of Ricardo Moretti, I was staring directly into the eyes of the killer.
His name was Victor Vance—Ricardo’s primary syndicate rival and the man aiming to carve up the Moretti empire.
Victor’s lips curved into a cold, razor-sharp smile. He adjusted his cufflink, deliberately letting the sleeve ride up to reveal the tattoo.
"Ricardo," Victor smoothed, his voice like gravel scraping over silk. "I didn't realize you were introducing your new bride to the council tonight. She looks... remarkably familiar."
Ricardo didn't move a muscle, but I felt the sudden shift in his body—the instant, terrifying transformation from an attentive fiancé to a apex predator. He pulled me slightly behind his broad frame, his heavy diamond ring catching the light as his hand settled over my waist.
"You're standing too close, Victor," Ricardo said, his tone dropping to a quiet, dangerous rumble. "And your memory has always been poor. This is Clara. My fiancée. And the future mother of my son."
Victor’s eyes met mine, locking on with a murderous certainty that turned my blood to ice. He knew. He didn't just suspect—he recognized the girl who had vanished into the shadows of Chicago five years ago.
"A lovely addition to the family," Victor murmured, taking a slow sip of champagne. "Just be careful, Ricardo. Beautiful things have a habit of disappearing when you least expect it."
Before Ricardo could respond, Victor turned and melted into the sea of black-tie guests.
My hands were shaking violently against Ricardo’s tailored sleeve. I tried to pull away, to find a dark corner where I could breathe, but Ricardo’s grip on my waist tightened. He leaned down, his warm breath fanning against my ear, though his golden-brown eyes remained icy as he scanned the room.
"You're bleeding through your dress, Clara," he whispered quietly.
I blinked, looking down. In my panic, my fingernails had dug into the palm of my hand so hard they had broken the skin.
"We're leaving," Ricardo commanded smoothly.
He guided me out of the estate through a private side exit, his bodyguards forming a tight wall around us until the doors of the armored Escalade slammed shut. The rain began to pound against the tinted glass as the driver pulled out into the night.
In the backseat, the silence was suffocating.
Ricardo pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, taking my wounded hand in his. His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man whose hands carried so much death. He wiped the blood from my palm, his thumbs resting against my rapid pulse point.
"Who was he to you?" Ricardo asked. No anger. Just pure, calculated focus.
"Nobody," I lied, my voice cracking. "I... I just recognized his tattoo. It scared me."
Ricardo leaned closer, his dark jaw set like granite. "Do not lie to me, Clara. I read your file. I know you fled Chicago five years ago after a prominent judge was executed in a blind alley. The police never found the witness." He tilted my chin up until I was forced to look into his piercing gaze. "Victor Vance killed that judge. And you saw it, didn't you?"
My breath caught in my throat. "You knew? When you picked me up off the street... you already knew?"
"I knew you were a witness," Ricardo admitted, his voice low. "I didn't know Victor was the one who pulled the trigger until I saw your face in that ballroom tonight."
He released my chin and pulled a heavy leather folder from the side pocket of the car. He opened it, setting it on my lap. Inside was my entire life—photographs of my old apartment, my nursing school transcripts, and my real name: Elena Vance—no relation to Victor, but a name I had buried to stay alive.
"You brought me into your house as a target," I gasped, tears finally spilling over my lashes. "You used me!"
"I brought you into my house because my son stopped screaming when you touched him!" Ricardo snapped, a rare flash of raw emotion breaking his stoic mask. "And because Victor Vance has been hunting the witness to that murder for five years! Under my roof, behind my guards, you are safe. Out on the streets, you are a corpse."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
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Ricardo looked out the rain-slicked window as the car turned into the iron gates of his sprawling Long Island estate.
"Because the rules were simple, Clara," he said softly. "No questions. No secrets. And no love."
