Chapter 4 - The Shattered Mirror
Lorenzo rushed back to Isabella’s side. He fell to one knee again, his focus shifting completely to the woman trembling in the chair.
“Isabella,” he said softly, putting every drop of tenderness he possessed into his tone. “Look at me. Look at my face.”
She lifted her chin slowly. Her eyes searched his features—the familiar scar running along his jawline, the dark brown eyes that had watched her with devotion for five years, the subtle curve of his mouth.
“Lorenzo?” she whispered, a real breath finally catching in her lungs. “You’re... you’re real?”
“I’m real, my love,” he murmured, gently lifting his hand until his palm pressed flat against her warm cheek. “I never stopped looking for you. Not for a single second.”
A sob ripped from Isabella’s chest. The icy wall of shock surrounding her collapsed all at once. She leaned her face into his hand, weeping hysterically as eight months of horror, isolation, and psychological torture poured out of her.
Lorenzo reached down, wrapping his large arms around both Isabella and the tiny bundle she held. He pulled them close to his chest, burying his face in her soft hair, smelling the faint, unmistakable scent of lavender beneath the cold odor of the guesthouse.
The tiny baby between them stirred, letting out a soft, high-pitched squeak.
Lorenzo looked down.
For the first time, he saw her. A thick tuft of dark, silky hair covered her tiny head. Her eyes—bright, piercing blue—opened, looking up at the broad, scarred face of the mob boss hovering over her. She reached out a tiny, delicate fist, her tiny fingers brushing against Lorenzo’s thumb.
“Mia,” Lorenzo whispered, his voice cracking with an emotion he hadn't felt since he was a boy. “My little Mia.”
“Matteo kept us locked in here,” Isabella sobbed, clutching Lorenzo’s suit jacket with white-knuckled intensity. “He gave me sedatives in the water. He told me the house was surrounded by Moretti’s snipers. He said if I tried to look through the windows, they would put a bullet through the crib.”
“He will suffer for every second you spent in this room,” Lorenzo vowed, his voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute murder. “I promise you that on my mother’s grave.”
The door to the nursery creaked open. Sophia Rossi stood in the doorway, holding three-year-old Emma against her hip. The maid was crying silently, her lower lip trembling.
“Mr. DeLuca,” Sophia choked out. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you so many times, but Matteo threatened to hurt Emma if I said a word. He paid me to bring food to the guesthouse when the guards were changing shifts.”
Lorenzo looked up at Sophia. Then his gaze shifted to little Emma, who was staring at him with her wide, calm gray eyes, hugging her stuffed rabbit.
“Sophia,” Lorenzo said firmly. “You and your daughter saved my family tonight. You will never have to work another day in your life, and you will have the full protection of the DeLuca crest for as long as you breathe.”
Emma pointed her small finger toward the window. “The bad trucks are here, Mr. Lorenzo.”
May you like
Lorenzo stood up instantly, his jaw setting like concrete.
Outside, the low, guttural roar of heavy diesel engines echoed through the storm, accompanied by the blinding glare of dozens of headlights sweeping through the cypress trees.
