Chapter 7 - The Gathering Storm
The next forty-eight hours were a blur of domestic survival and mafia warfare.
While I tended to Gabriel’s wound—which was finally healing thanks to the antibiotics—and cared for the twins, Gabriel was on a secure burner phone, rallying his loyal capos.
We existed in a strange, intimate bubble. I learned that his wife, Elena, had died in childbirth three months ago. I learned that Silas had orchestrated the hit on Gabriel to seize control of the Chicago syndicate. And Gabriel learned about my father, my debts, and my shattered dreams.
On the third night, after the twins were finally asleep, we sat on the floor by the fireplace. Gabriel poured us both a glass of whiskey.
“Tomorrow, we go back to the city,” he said, staring into the flames. “I’m meeting Silas at the shipping yards. He thinks I’m coming to surrender to save my kids.”
“It’s a trap,” I said, my heart tightening.
“Of course it is. But I have loyal men waiting. We end it tomorrow.” He turned to me, his gaze dropping to my lips. “I have a jet waiting at O'Hare. You and the twins will be on it. It goes to Italy. You’ll be safe.”
“I’m not leaving you,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Gabriel’s eyes darkened. He set his glass down, moved closer, and pulled me flush against his chest. “Don't tempt a dying man, Clara.”
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“You’re not dying,” I whispered.
He didn't answer with words. He kissed me. It was desperate, hungry, and tasted like whiskey and survival. I kissed him back, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to the man who had burned my life down and promised to build me a better one.
