Chapter 4 - The Golden Cage
The guest suite in the West Wing of the Castellano estate was larger than the entire apartment Nora had rented in South Chicago. It featured floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains, a king-sized canopy bed, an adjoining marble bathroom, and a balcony overlooking the floodlit gardens below.
Clara was fast asleep on the soft bed, exhausted from the day's events, with Apollo lying stretched out on the rug beside her like a massive, faithful guardian.
Nora stood by the balcony glass, staring out into the night. Below, armed guards in dark suits patrolled the perimeter with trained security dogs, their flashlights cutting through the autumn mist.
She felt like a prisoner, but for the first time in three years, she didn't feel afraid.
The door to the suite clicked open softly. Damon walked in, having removed his suit jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt. He carried a leather folder in his hand.
Apollo raised his head, gave a quiet thump of his tail against the rug, and went back to sleep.
"She sleeps deeply," Damon remarked quietly, walking over to stand beside Nora near the window.
"She’s spent three years moving from motel to motel," Nora replied, her voice soft and defensive. "She’s tired, Mr. Castellano."
"Damon," he corrected gently. "Call me Damon."
He placed the leather folder on the marble table beside her.
"What is this?" Nora asked.
"A formal legal agreement," Damon explained. "I have officially declared you and Clara under the direct protection of the Castellano family. As far as the city of Chicago is concerned, you are my personal guests. Any move Julian Moretti makes against you will be treated as an act of war against my entire organization."
Nora looked at him, searching his handsome, stoic face for the catch. "Why would you do that? The Moretti family is your biggest business rival. Protecting me risks a war that could ruin your shipping contracts."
Damon turned his body to face her, leaning back against the balcony railing. "Julian Moretti is an arrogant brute who thinks fear is built with blood and noise. I dislike his methods, and I severely dislike the way he treats women."
He reached out, his long fingers gently picking up a stray strand of brown hair that had fallen across Nora’s cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Nora held her breath, her pulse racing at the subtle, intense heat of his touch.
"Besides," Damon added, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register, "Julian took something three years ago that didn't belong to him. I enjoy taking things back."
"I am not a object to be traded between mob bosses, Damon," Nora said, her emerald eyes flashing with sudden fire.
Damon’s lips curved into a faint, rare smile—a sight that transformed his cold, distant face into something dangerously attractive.
"I know you aren't," Damon said softly. "A toy wouldn't have survived three years in hiding with a four-year-old child. You are remarkably resilient, Nora."
He pushed himself off the railing and walked toward the door. Before leaving, he paused, his hand resting on the brass handle.
"Tomorrow morning, a medical team will arrive at the estate," Damon announced casually.
Nora stiffened. "A medical team? Why? Clara isn't sick!"
Damon turned his head, his dark eyes fixing on her with a sharp, penetrating intensity.
"Because Clara needs a full checkup after years of living in poor conditions," Damon replied smoothly. "And because I need a DNA sample."
Nora’s heart stopped beating. The room seemed to tilt beneath her feet.
"A... a DNA sample?" she stammered, her voice barely audible.
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"Don't look so terrified, Nora," Damon whispered, his expression unreadable. "If the child is mine, she will inherit half of my empire. If she isn't, she still gets the ice cream."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Nora standing alone in the silent room, her hands trembling violently against her dress.
