Chapter 4: Shadows at the Window

Chapter 4: Shadows at the Window

Moretti.

The name was a poison, seeping into every memory she had of him. It clung to the ghost of his scent on her pillow, twisted the recollection of his hands on her skin into something sinister. Dante Moretti. The man who whispered “perfetto” against her neck while his name was being whispered in connection with a gang-land execution an ocean away.

Not safe enough.

His words now had the force of a prophecy. The gilded cage he’d ordered her to find no longer felt like a possessive whim; it felt like a desperate necessity. The loving protector and the ruthless syndicate head were not two different men. They were one. The realization sat like a shard of ice in her stomach.

Forcing down a wave of nausea, Jessica opened her laptop. The pristine real estate listings she’d looked at yesterday now seemed like blueprints for a fortress. She picked up the phone and, her voice hollow and distant, scheduled three viewings for the day. She used his name—Mr. Moretti—as a key, and doors that would have been sealed shut to Jessica Miller swung wide open. The agents were falling over themselves, their voices slick with deference.

Her first appointment was in a sleek glass tower that scraped the sky. As the taxi pulled up, she noticed a black sedan parked across the street. Dark tinted windows, expensive model, utterly out of place amongst the delivery vans and yellow cabs. A flicker of unease went through her, but she dismissed it. This was the kind of neighborhood where such cars belonged. She was just being paranoid.

The realtor, a woman named Chloe with a terrifyingly bright smile, whisked her up in a private elevator that moved with unnerving silence. “Mr. Moretti will appreciate the security here,” Chloe chirped, gesturing to a small keypad next to the apartment door. “Biometric fingerprint scanner, direct line to the 24/7 security desk, and the entire floor is his. Complete privacy.”

Jessica stepped inside, and her breath caught. The apartment was a cavern of white marble and glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a stunning, god-like view of the city below. It was magnificent, sterile, and as welcoming as a mausoleum.

“The master bedroom has a reinforced panic room, of course,” Chloe added casually, as if discussing a walk-in closet.

Jessica stared out the window, down at the street thirty stories below. The city looked like a map, the people like ants. She felt a profound sense of dislocation, as if she were already a ghost haunting this empty palace. From this height, she could see the street where she’d arrived. The black sedan was still there, a dark, patient beetle.

A cold dread trickled down her spine.

She made a vague excuse and fled the second viewing, her heart hammering against her ribs. Back in her own neighborhood, the feeling of being watched was a physical weight on her shoulders. Every shadow seemed to stretch, every passerby’s glance felt too long. She told herself she was being ridiculous, that the article had infected her with a paranoia she couldn't shake.

Once inside her own apartment, she locked the door and leaned against it, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The comforting familiarity of her space was gone. Now, the large windows felt like exposed wounds, the single lock a laughable child’s toy. She needed to feel normal, just for a second. She needed to hear a friendly voice.

She picked up her landline to call Sarah, her best friend, the one person whose life wasn't a tangled mess of secrets and fear. Instead of a dial tone, there was only a faint, crackling static, like a dead channel. She jiggled the receiver hook. Nothing. A knot of ice formed in her stomach. She grabbed her cell phone from her purse, her hands trembling, and tried Sarah’s number again. It rang without issue.

A service outage. That was all. A perfectly normal, logical explanation. But logic had deserted her. The dead line felt like another severed connection to her old life, another layer of isolation wrapping around her. First the sedan, now this. Was it all in her head?

The sharp buzz of her apartment’s intercom shattered the silence, making her jump so violently she nearly dropped her cell. She stared at the intercom speaker as if it were a snake. Who could it be? She wasn't expecting anyone.

Her finger hovered over the ‘talk’ button. “Hello?” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

“Delivery for Miller,” a muffled, bored voice crackled back.

“I… I didn’t order anything.”

“Got a package here. Says it has to be handed to you.”

Hesitantly, she pressed the button to unlock the main door. Her mind raced. Dante. It had to be Dante. Maybe flowers, an apology for his abrupt departure. Her fear warred with a desperate flicker of hope. She opened her apartment door just a crack, the security chain still in place, and waited.

A moment later, a young courier in a generic blue uniform stood there, holding a simple, elegant black box tied with a black satin ribbon. He didn't look threatening, just impatient. He held out a clipboard. “Sign here.”

She scribbled an unreadable signature, took the surprisingly light box, and quickly shut and locked the door, her heart thudding a frantic rhythm. She stood in her hallway for a long moment, just staring at the box. It was identical in its severe elegance to the world Dante inhabited. No logos, no return address. Just black on black.

With trembling fingers, she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on a bed of black tissue paper, was a single, perfect red rose. It was the color of blood, its petals velvety and impossibly deep. The beauty of it was so stark, so intense, it was almost violent.

Underneath the rose was a small, crisp white card. She picked it up. There was no greeting, no signature. Just one word, written in a bold, decisive script she didn't recognize.

Mine.