Chapter 2 - The Whispers in the Dark Room
Ethan stepped quietly into the east sitting room. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the Chicago night, filtering out the distant glow of the lakefront. Dr. Porter had just administered a mild sedative, and Hannah’s breathing had finally slowed to a steady, rhythmic pattern. Her left hand was still resting protectively over the gentle swell of her belly, fingers clenching the soft fabric of Ethan’s discarded suit jacket as if it were a lifeline.
He pulled a wooden chair close to the sofa, his eyes fixing on the jagged line near her temple where Vanessa’s silver scissors had severed her dark hair. Up close, the thin white scar revealed beneath it was clear. It wasn’t a mark from an ordinary childhood fall. It was shaped like a small crescent, identical to a birthmark Ethan’s younger brother, Owen, had carried on his shoulder—a mark passed down through three generations of the Moretti bloodline.
Owen.
Eight months ago, Ethan’s rebellious younger brother had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only rumors of a secret romance and a growing rift between the Moretti family and the Caruso syndicate. For months, Ethan had scoured the city, suspecting Vincent Caruso had silenced Owen to prevent him from claiming his share of the lakefront transport networks.
Ethan reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently brushing a loose strand of hair away from Hannah’s forehead.
"Owen..." she murmured in her sleep, her lips barely moving, tears pooling in the corners of her closed eyes. "Please... don't go back to the docks..."
Ethan’s heart slammed against his ribs. The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow. Hannah hadn't been an ordinary maid who applied for work through an agency four months ago. She was the woman Owen had died trying to protect—and the child she was carrying wasn't just a servant’s baby.
It was Owen’s child. The sole living heir to the Moretti legacy.
The sitting room door creaked open, breaking the silence. Mr. Bennett stood in the doorway, his wrinkled face drawn tight with anxiety. "Sir," the old butler whispered, keeping his voice down. "Vincent Caruso and Miss Vanessa are demanding to see you in the main study. Mr. Caruso says if you do not clarify your stance on the engagement tonight, the shipping unions will strike tomorrow morning."
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Ethan looked down at Hannah one last time, gently tucked his jacket around her shoulders, and stood up. The cold, unyielding persona that had made him the most feared man in Chicago settled over his features.
"Tell Vincent I’ll be right there," Ethan said softly. "And post four of our most loyal guards outside this door. If anyone—including a Caruso—tries to enter this room, shoot them."
