Chapter 4 - The Penthouse With No Locked Doors
I moved into Alessandro’s penthouse under protest.
He called it temporary protective relocation.
I called it kidnapping with Egyptian cotton sheets.
“You are free to leave,” he said as Marco carried my suitcase inside.
“There are four security guards outside.”
“To keep people out.”
“And the elevator needs your fingerprint.”
“Yours was added twenty minutes ago.”
I stopped.
“You added my fingerprint?”
“You touched a champagne glass.”
I stared at him.
“That is profoundly creepy.”
“Yes.”
“At least you admit it.”
“I find denial inefficient.”
The penthouse occupied the top two floors of a building overlooking Lake Michigan.
Everything was glass, stone, dark wood, and quiet wealth.
But the room Alessandro gave me surprised me.
No cameras.
No electronic locks.
No adjoining door to his bedroom.
On the nightstand sat crackers, ginger tea, bottled water, and prenatal vitamins.
I froze.
He stood behind me.
“You know.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You ordered ginger ale, dry toast, and asked your manager to cover three obstetric appointments.”
“That could mean anything.”
“You also looked at a baby in booth three yesterday and started crying.”
My cheeks burned.
“That was a very emotional baby.”
“Apparently.”
I turned.
He wasn’t smiling.
“Is it mine?”
There are questions that divide a life.
That was one.
“Yes.”
Alessandro closed his eyes.
For perhaps three seconds, the most powerful man I had ever known looked defenseless.
Then he opened them.
“Are you keeping it?”
“Yes.”
Relief moved across his face so nakedly that my throat tightened.
“Then you will never worry about money again.”
I stiffened.
“I don’t want your money.”
“That wasn’t an offer.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The dictatorship.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m not buying you.”
“It sounds remarkably similar.”
“I am telling you my child will have everything.”
“Our child.”
He went still.
I stepped closer.
“Our child, Alessandro. Not your heir. Not your possession. Not another Vitali asset.”
Something almost angry flashed in his eyes.
Then vanished.
“You’re right.”
I hadn’t expected surrender.
“You’re agreeing?”
“Don’t become accustomed to it.”
That night we opened the box my father had left with Liam years earlier.
I had never understood its contents.
Receipts.
Property records.
A broken flash drive.
One key engraved with a number: 317.
Alessandro recognized it.
“Union Station.”
“What?”
“Old private storage lockers beneath the east concourse.”
The next morning, we went.
Alessandro tried to bring twelve men.
I negotiated him down to four.
He complained as though I had asked him to enter a war zone naked.
Locker 317 contained a single envelope.
Inside was a letter from my father.
Elizabeth, if you are reading this, Sofia failed. I probably did too. Do not trust a surname. Trust actions. Especially when the surname is Vitali.
Beneath the letter was a photograph.
Sofia Vitali.
My father.
And another man.
Alessandro’s uncle, Matteo.
Alessandro stared at it.
“Matteo raised me after my mother died.”
My stomach tightened.
“Do you trust him?”
“I did.”
The past tense frightened me.
That evening, Alessandro cooked.
Or attempted to.
The billionaire who controlled thirty-seven companies could not make pasta.
He burned water.
I didn’t know water could burn until Alessandro Vitali demonstrated.
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You’re failing.”
“So did the pasta.”
He looked offended.
It was the first ordinary moment we had shared.
Later, I found him asleep on the sofa with a file open across his chest.
The photograph of his mother rested beside his hand.
I covered him with a blanket.
His fingers suddenly closed around my wrist.
His eyes opened violently.
For one terrifying second, he wasn’t seeing me.
“Mom?”
My heart broke.
Then awareness returned.
He released me immediately.
“Sorry.”
“You were dreaming.”
“I don’t dream.”
“That was extremely convincing not-dreaming.”
He sat up.
I should have walked away.
Instead I sat beside him.
“What happened to her?”
Alessandro stared toward the dark windows.
“She tried to leave my father.”
He swallowed.
“I packed my own suitcase because she promised we were going somewhere warm.”
His voice lowered.
“She never came upstairs.”
I covered his hand with mine.
He looked at our fingers.
“I waited until morning.”
The billionaire disappeared.
The frightened fourteen-year-old remained.
“I still hate packed suitcases,” he admitted.
Without thinking, I leaned against him.
His body became completely still.
Then very carefully, as though I might break, Alessandro put one arm around me.
Neither of us spoke.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Liam.
Someone broke into the apartment. Nothing stolen. They left this.
A photograph followed.
Three words had been painted across my bedroom wall.
ASK ALESSANDRO ABOUT 2001.
I showed him.
All color left his face.
“What happened in 2001?”
He stood.
“Alessandro?”
He walked toward the window.
“That was the year my mother died.”
May you like
Then he looked back at me.
“And the year your parents began working for my family.”
