Chapter 2 - The Whispered Ghost
The silence in Bellavita was absolute. Even the rain outside seemed to quiet down as Sophie slowly swayed back and forth.
Under the firm pressure of her arm against his tiny tummy, the newborn’s rigid muscles began to unknot. The jagged screams dissolved into heavy, trembling hiccups, then soft, exhausted whimpers. Sophie gently pressed her cheek against his soft dark hair, breathing in the scent of baby powder and fresh rain.
She leaned down and whispered into the curve of his tiny ear.
“It’s okay… I’ve got you, Julian.”
Dominic Moretti went dead still.
The vein in his temple stopped pulsing. The air in his lungs froze. The four bodyguards behind him tensed, their hands twitching toward their shoulder holsters.
“What did you call him?” Dominic’s voice dropped an octave, dripping with lethal ice.
Sophie blinked, startled by her own slip of the tongue. She had been looking at the tiny silver medallion tucked beneath the baby’s collar—a St. Jude medal with a tiny, distinct scratch across the back.
“I… I just said he’s okay,” Sophie stammered, holding the baby tighter against her chest.
Dominic stood up. At six-foot-three, dressed in bespoke Italian wool, he blotted out the light from the brass sconce. He stepped closer until the scent of leather, rain, and cedar wrapped around her.
“You said Julian,” Dominic whispered, his dark eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “Nobody knows that name. That baby’s birth was kept off every record in the city. His father died three months ago, and the only people who knew his real name are currently buried under six feet of concrete.”
He reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gripping Sophie’s chin gently—yet with enough underlying power to remind her that he could crush her throat without breathing heavily.
“Who sent you, sweetheart?” he growled. “Who gave you that name?”
“No one sent me!” Sophie gasped, refusing to drop his gaze despite the terror rattling her ribs. “Four years ago, a man named Julian Moretti paid off my late son’s NICU bill when my insurance refused to cover it. He was a donor at the children's hospital. He gave me that exact St. Jude medal.”
Dominic’s thumb froze on her chin. His lethal composure cracked, revealing a flash of staggering shock.
“Julian… helped you?” Dominic murmured.
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“He was a good man,” Sophie whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. “And this baby has his chin. Now please… let go of me. You’re scaring him again.”
Dominic looked from her fierce, tear-filled eyes down to the infant sleeping peacefully against her arm. For the first time in years, the ruthless king of Chicago was speechlessly disarmed.
