Part 2: The Crimson Snow
I lay awake for hours, my hand resting over my completely flat stomach. Two pink lines. A child. Damen Moretti’s child.
In New York, the Moretti name was synonymous with an untouchable, lethal empire. They owned shipping ports, real estate, and judges. Damen was the crown prince of that dynasty—a man who had survived three assassination attempts before his thirtieth birthday and had consolidated his power with a cold efficiency that terrified his enemies. I was just Clare Vance, a girl who ran a struggling floral shop on a quiet corner in Astoria. He had walked into my shop six months ago, bleeding from a superficial knife wound to his forearm after a localized turf dispute nearby, looking for a place to duck the police. I had stitched him up with an old sewing needle and whiskey, asking no questions.
Since then, he had woven himself into my quiet life. Midnight dinners in the back of my shop, handwritten notes left on my counter, and a fierce, possessive protection that made me feel safe for the first time since my parents died.
But it was all a fantasy.
At 4:00 AM, the freezing rain turned into a brutal, blinding Manhattan blizzard. And that was when the street below my apartment erupted into chaos.
The screech of heavy tires tore through the quiet Queens night. I bolted upright, throwing the quilt aside, and rushed to the window. Through the swirling white snow, I saw three black armored SUVs block the intersection. The doors flew open, and men in dark tactical gear stepped out, fanning out around the perimeter of my building.
My breath hitched. The police? No. These men moved with too much synchronization, their weapons kept low but ready.
Then, the back door of the lead SUV opened.
A man stepped out into the storm. He wasn't wearing tactical gear. He wore a long, bespoke charcoal wool coat over his black gala tuxedo. His dark hair was lightly dusted with snow, and his ice-blue eyes seemed to pierce through the darkness, scanning the brick facade of my building until they locked directly onto my third-floor window.
Damen.
My heart shattered against my ribs. He knows. No, how could he know? I had torn the pregnancy test into pieces and scattered them across a restroom stall thirty-two floors above the city.
I backed away from the window, my breathing turning shallow and frantic. I had to leave. If Damen found out I was pregnant, he would take my child. In his world, heirs were assets, protected by armed guards and iron walls. I would be relegated to a kept woman, forced to watch him marry a woman in a silver gown while my child was raised to inherit an empire of blood and shadows.
I grabbed a duffel bag from the closet, throwing in a handful of warm sweaters, my passport, and the cash I had saved from the shop’s holiday rush.
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A heavy, definitive thud echoed from the stairwell downstairs. The front security door of the building had just been breached.
I ran to the back fire escape, throwing the window open. The freezing wind hit my face like a million tiny needles, but panic drowned out the pain. I climbed out onto the icy iron grating just as the heavy oak door of my apartment was blasted off its hinges with a deafening crack.
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