Chapter 3 - Shadows of Chicago
Victor walked slowly toward me, the leather of his shoes clicking softly against the ruined floorboards. Despite the terrifying aura that surrounded him, his expression softened the moment he knelt down beside me.
“Can you stand, Rachel?” he asked, his voice losing its freezing edge and turning surprisingly gentle.
I shook my head, tears finally breaking free and streaming down my dirt-stained cheeks. “My arm... it's broken. And my ribs...”
Victor didn't waste another second. He turned his head slightly toward one of the massive guards holding my husband. “Marcus. Get the medic team up here immediately. And someone bring my coat.”
“Right away, Boss,” Marcus replied, tossing my weeping husband onto the floor like a discarded rag doll. My husband scrambled backward, clawing at the kitchen tiles, utterly paralyzed by fear as he realized who had just walked into his life.
Victor carefully slipped his warm, heavy wool coat off his shoulders and draped it gently over my shivering body. The fabric smelled faintly of expensive cedar and rain, wrapping around me like a shield against the nightmare of the past five years.
“You're safe now, Rachel,” Victor whispered, extending his hand to support me. “No one will ever lay a hand on you again. I promise you that.”
With immense care, Victor lifted me into his arms, bypassing my broken left side entirely. As he carried me toward the shattered doorway, my husband let out a pathetic, whimpering sob.
“Wait! Please! You can't just take my wife!” my husband cried out, reaching a trembling hand toward Victor's ankle.
Victor stopped in his tracks. He didn't turn around completely, but he glanced down over his shoulder with eyes so devoid of warmth that it made my breath hitch.
“She hasn't been your wife for a very long time,” Victor said flatly. “She was just your prisoner. And now, your sentence has begun.”
Two other men in suits stepped forward to block my view as we exited the apartment, but the sickening sound of heavy boots and muffled screams echoing behind us told me that justice, Chicago style, was swift and merciless.
Outside in the hallway, a team of private medics was already waiting with a specialized stretcher. They moved with quiet efficiency, slipping a stabilizing brace onto my shattered arm and administering a mild painkiller that immediately began to dull the agonizing fire in my bones.
Victor stood beside the stretcher, watching the lead medic work with an intensity that showed how deeply he cared about every detail.
“Take her to the private wing at St. Jude's,” Victor instructed the medic. “Use the underground entrance. I don't want reporters, cops, or anyone else knowing she's there.”
“Understood, Mr. Romano,” the medic nodded, securing the straps.
May you like
Before they wheeled me toward the private elevator, Victor leaned down, placing a warm, steady hand over my good one.
“Get some rest, Rachel,” he said quietly. “When you wake up, everything changes.”
