Chapter 8 - The Warehouse on 18th StreetThe morning light broke over Lake Michigan in pale shades of rose and slate-gray.
The frost on the mansion windows sparkled in the crisp autumn air. While Daniel’s legal team processed the forfeiture documents in the lower offices, Matteo and I stepped out onto the wide stone terrace overlooking the manicured gardens.
He had changed out of his ruined tuxedo into a simple charcoal cashmere sweater and dark trousers. He held two heavy ceramic mugs of black coffee, handing one to me.
“Thank you, Mr. Rossi,” I said, wrapping my cold fingers around the warm porcelain.
“Matteo,” he corrected gently, looking out over the calm lake. “After last night, I think you’ve earned the right to call me by my name, Sophie.”
I took a sip of the strong, hot coffee. “How is Mia?”
“য়ন sleeping soundly,” he said, a faint, tender smile touching his lips. “She has Isabella’s recipe card tucked under her pillow. The torn one. She told me that you taped it back together for her before she went to sleep.”
“A little clear scotch tape does wonders,” I murmured.
Matteo turned to face me. The morning sun illuminated the sharp lines of his face, softening the terrifying hardness that had ruled him throughout the night.
“Why didn't you throw the cookie away, Sophie?” he asked. “Camilla threatened your livelihood. She could have had you blacklisted from every domestic service agency in Illinois. You knew what she was capable of.”
I looked down at the coffee in my hands, thinking about my mother’s drafty house in Pilsen, the furnace that clanked every winter, the overdue property tax notices stacked on the kitchen counter.
“My mother worked as a seamstress for thirty years,” I said softly. “She worked twelve-hour shifts in drafty basements to put shoes on my feet and keep a roof over our heads. She always taught me that money comes and goes, but the moment you let someone convince you to treat a child’s love like garbage just to keep a paycheck, you lose something you can never buy back.”
Matteo watched me in silence for several long seconds. His dark eyes were deep, searching, and entirely focused on my face.
“Your mother raised a remarkable daughter,” he said softly.
Before I could reply, Daniel appeared on the terrace, holding a sealed black leather portfolio.
“Boss,” Daniel reported. “The Vance shipping warehouse on 18th Street. We sent a team to secure the premises an hour ago, but there’s a complication.”
Matteo’s expression instantly sharpened. “What kind of complication?”
“Arthur’s nephew, Vince. He barricaded himself inside the main office with six armed loyalists. He says if we don't return Arthur and Camilla by noon, he’s going to torch the entire facility—including the secondary storage vaults where Isabella’s original medical files and banking archives were archived.”
Matteo set his coffee mug down on the stone balustrade with a sharp click.
“Vince thinks he has leverage,” Matteo muttered coldly.
“He has automatic rifles and thirty gallons of kerosene spread across the ground floor,” Daniel warned.
Matteo looked back at me. “Stay with Lily—stay with Mia today, Sophie. Take her to the conservatory. Don't let her near the news or the security monitors.”
“Matteo,” I said, stepping forward before I could stop myself.
He stopped, looking down at me.
“Be careful,” I whispered.
May you like
A slow, genuine warmth spread across his rugged features. He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek.
“Always, Sophie.”
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