Chapter 2 - The velvet cage
The ride to the Russo penthouse was suffocatingly silent. The black SUV glided through the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan, the city lights painting fleeting shadows across Dante’s sharp jawline. Sophia remained asleep, her small head resting heavy on Emma’s lap. Emma stroked the child’s soft curls, her heart hammering violently against her ribs. The silver crest on the door mocked her. She was sitting next to the man who might be responsible for her sister’s disappearance.
The penthouse was a fortress of glass and dark mahogany, offering a sprawling view of the city. The moment they stepped out of the private elevator, three men in tailored suits nodded silently to Dante. He waved them away with a single, controlled gesture of his hand.
"The guest room is down the hall," Dante said, his voice returning to its normal, emotionally restrained cadence. "Put her in bed. Do not let her wake up alone."
Emma nodded, carrying the sleeping child down the long, dimly lit corridor. The walls were lined with expensive art, but the air felt cold, devoid of any warmth a five-year-old needed. She gently laid Sophia onto a massive, plush bed, pulling the thick duvet over her. The little girl stirred, her small hand reaching out blindly in her sleep until her fingers caught the edge of Emma’s black apron. She refused to let go.
Emma sat on the edge of the bed for hours, the heavy silence of the penthouse pressing down on her. Her mind raced. Why was Sophia’s mother gone? What did the Russo syndicate have to do with her sister, Clara?
Around two in the morning, Sophia’s grip finally loosened. Emma slipped her apron off, leaving it on the bed so the child would still feel the fabric. She stepped out into the hallway, desperate for a glass of water.
The penthouse was entirely quiet, the warm chandelier lighting turned down to a faint glow. Emma wandered past the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the polished hardwood floors. She noticed a door slightly ajar at the end of the hall. A faint sliver of light spilled out onto the floor. Curiosity overpowered her fear. She pushed the door open just an inch more.
It was a private study, smelling of expensive leather and old paper. The room was untouched, perfectly clean but suffocated by the heavy weight of the past. On the massive oak desk sat a single, silver-framed photograph.
Emma stepped into the room, her breath catching in her throat. She picked up the frame. The woman in the picture had long, curly brown hair just like Sophia, and fair, rosy skin. She was stunningly beautiful, smiling warmly at the camera. But it wasn't her face that made the blood drain from Emma’s body. It was the woman’s wrist, resting on her collarbone in the photo. There, perfectly visible, was a small, distinct birthmark shaped like a crescent moon.
It was the exact same birthmark Emma’s sister, Clara, had.
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A heavy footstep sounded behind her. Emma spun around, dropping the frame. It shattered on the floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent room. Dante stood in the doorway, his tie discarded, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His dark eyes stared at the broken glass, then slowly rose to meet Emma’s terrified gaze.
"You shouldn't be in this room," Dante said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
