Chapter 4 - face to face
Elena didn’t wait for fear to paralyze her. She stepped off the curb and darted across the asphalt before the gate could open fully.
“Mr. DeLuca!” she called out, her voice cracking against the cold wind.
In less than a second, Marco’s cigarette hit the ground. His hand disappeared beneath his dark charcoal suit jacket, closing around the grip of his concealed firearm. Two bodyguards behind him raised their weapons instantly.
“Stand down!” Marco barked at his men, though his eyes remained locked on Elena. He took two fast strides toward her, his expression hard, calculating. “You’ve got five seconds to explain why you’re running up on a private exit at four in the morning, kid.”
Elena stopped three paces away, raising one trembling hand while keeping the other firmly tucked inside her coat.
“My name is Elena Parker. I clean the eighth floor at the St. Jude,” she said, her chest heaving. “Don’t shoot. Please. Just look.”
Marco’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Slowly, carefully, Elena drew down the heavy zipper of her oversized sweatshirt.
Marco’s entire posture shattered.
His eyes dropped to the tiny, feverish face tucked against Elena’s chest, taking in the small dark curls, the cream Gucci collar, and the platinum lion pendant gleaming against the gray cotton of Elena’s shirt.
Marco stumbled half a step backward, his breath catching in his throat. “Jesus Christ…”
“She’s burning up,” Elena said, tears finally spilling down her cold cheeks. “I found her in the dumpster behind the laundry bay an hour ago. She’s sick, Mr. DeLuca. She needs a doctor right now.”
Marco recovered with terrifying speed. He spun around, slamming his palm against the hood of the lead SUV. “Get the medic! Tell Dr. Evans to prep the penthouse suite immediately! Move!”
The two guards scrambled back inside without asking a single question. Marco grabbed Elena by the shoulder—not roughly, but with an iron grip—and steered her directly toward the open door of the armored vehicle.
“Get in. Now,” he commanded.
“Wait—the keycard—” Elena tried to say, reaching into her pocket.
“Inside the car, Elena! Now!”
Within ten minutes, the SUV breached the underground security gates of the Moretti Tower. Elena was rushed through a private, reinforced elevator that bypassed every residential floor, shooting straight to the penthouse seventy stories above the city.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
Lorenzo Moretti was standing in the center of the vast, minimalist living room. He held a crystal glass of whiskey that he had not touched.
When his eyes landed on the bundle in Elena’s arms, the heavy glass slipped from his fingers and shattered across the Italian tile.
Lorenzo crossed the room in three strides. His massive frame towered over Elena, but his hands were shaking violently as he reached down.
“Sofia…” he breathed, his gravelly voice cracking.
He lifted his six-month-old daughter from Elena’s arms, pulling the fragile child into his chest with a gentleness that looked almost impossible for a man of his size. He buried his face in her dark curls, closing his eyes as a shudder ripped through his powerful frame.
“Call Evans in!” Lorenzo shouted, his voice instantly returning to a thunderous roar. “Get her fever down! Now!”
A middle-aged man in a medical coat rushed in from the adjoining corridor, carrying an emergency pediatric kit. Marco stepped between Lorenzo and Elena, his gaze sharp and questioning.
Lorenzo handed Sofia to the doctor on the leather sofa, watching every movement like a predator coiled to strike. Only when the doctor administered an intravenous fever reducer and wrapped Sofia in a heated thermal wrap did Lorenzo finally turn around.
His dark, cold eyes fixed directly on Elena.
The room went dead silent.
“You’re the maid from the St. Jude,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register. “You walked my daughter out of that alley, past my scouts, and straight into your apartment.”
Elena stood her ground, though her knees were trembling. “I didn't take her, Mr. Moretti. I found her in the trash under wet cardboard. She was freezing to death.”
Lorenzo stepped toward her, stopping inches away. The scent of expensive cologne, tobacco, and cold rain rolled off him. “People don't just stumble onto Moretti children in garbage bins, Elena. Who put you up to this? Who gave her to you?”
“Nobody gave her to me!” Elena snapped, fear turning into pure anger. “If I wanted to sell her or hurt her, why would I walk into your private garage and hand her back to Marco?”
Lorenzo’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because sometimes the courier realizes the package is too hot to hold.”
Elena reached into her apron pocket, pulled out the gold plastic card, and held it out between them.
May you like
“Then explain why this was wrapped inside her blanket.”
Lorenzo looked down at the card. When he saw the embossed gold letters reading *Suite 812*, the cold composure on his face fractured completely.
