Elena Moretti POV:
My eyes pierced the dark tint of the bulletproof glass, locking onto the violent scene unfolding in the alley.
The figure in the corner was a homeless man. His hair was a matted, filthy nest of grease and dirt. He wore a thin, torn coat that offered zero protection against the brutal Chicago wind. He was curled into a tight ball, shivering so violently his teeth chattered.
One of the thugs threw another snowball. The rock hidden inside it struck the homeless man squarely on the forehead. The skin split open. Dark red blood instantly welled up, dripping down the side of his face.
The man let out a pathetic, animalistic whimper. He threw his arms over his head to protect himself, but as he moved, his coat fell open. He was desperately clutching something against his chest.
I squinted. Through the falling snow, I saw what he was holding.
It was a small teddy bear. It was caked in mud, missing one eye, and the stuffing was spilling out of a tear in its stomach. But the man was holding onto it like it was the most precious artifact in the world.
A sharp memory sliced through my brain. Ten years ago. My first week in Chicago. I had bought that cheap bear from a street vendor and handed it to Luca with a shy smile.
My stomach tightened. The realization hit me like a physical blow. This broken, stinking beggar, with the mental capacity of a toddler, was Luca.
Dante felt the sudden shift in my breathing. He followed my gaze out the window. When he saw Luca, his blue eyes turned into shards of ice. A dark, lethal fury rolled off his body.
Dante reached for the intercom button on the console. He was going to order the guards in the front SUV to step out and put a bullet in Luca's brain.
I reached out and placed my hand over Dante's. I shook my head slowly.
I looked back at Luca. I didn't feel a single drop of pity. I didn't feel anger, either. I felt the exact same way I felt when I looked at a speck of dirt on my shoe.
Outside, the thugs realized Luca wasn't going to fight back. They stepped closer, laughing cruelly. One of them noticed the bear. He reached down and tried to yank it from Luca's arms.
Luca shrieked. It was a horrifying, broken sound. He rolled wildly in the snow, kicking out with his improperly healed, crippled legs. He lunged forward and sank his rotting teeth directly into the thug's wrist.
The thug screamed in pain. He ripped his arm back and delivered a brutal, heavy kick straight into Luca's ribs.
The sickening crack of bone echoed over the street noise. Luca was launched backward, his body sliding across the slush and ice. He landed in a puddle of freezing, dirty water.
Luca lay there, gasping for air. Blood and muddy water streamed down his face. Slowly, agonizingly, he lifted his head.
Through the thick curtain of falling snow, his one remaining, cloudy eye drifted toward the street. He looked straight at the black Rolls-Royce idling at the red light.
He couldn't see me. The heavy black tint on the windows made the car look like a solid block of obsidian. But something inside him—some primal, animal instinct buried deep in his broken brain—locked onto my presence.
Time stopped.
I sat inside the absolute luxury of the climate-controlled cabin, wrapped in cashmere, smelling of expensive vanilla. He lay in the freezing mud, bleeding, smelling of garbage and rot.
Luca's pupil dilated. A flicker of recognition sparked in the cloudy depths of his eye. A fragmented ghost of the girl he had relentlessly abused and betrayed must have crossed his mind.
He opened his mouth. His lips were covered in cracked, bleeding frostbite. He let out a harsh, rasping wheeze, trying desperately to form my name.
He lifted his right hand. His fingers were black with frostbite and caked in filth. He reached out toward the car, his hand shaking violently, silently begging for me to save him. Begging for the girl who used to forgive him for everything.
The traffic light turned green.
The driver smoothly pressed the accelerator. The massive V12 engine let out a low, powerful roar. The heavy tires gripped the asphalt and surged forward.
The Rolls-Royce drove straight through the slush puddle near the curb. A massive wave of freezing, dirty street water splashed violently over Luca, covering his face and chest in black grime.
Luca's arm dropped. The tiny spark of light in his eye died instantly. He watched the red taillights of the convoy disappear down the street, realizing no one was coming for him.
He curled back into a ball in the freezing water, clutching the ruined bear to his chest, and let out a long, agonizing wail into the wind.
Inside the car, I reached up and pressed the button to lower the privacy shade. The thick black fabric rolled down, permanently shutting out the street and the past.
Dante poured a cup of hot black tea from the thermos. He handed it to me, then leaned over and pressed a firm, warm kiss against my temple, chasing away the chill.
I took a sip of the tea. The hot liquid slid down my throat, warming my chest. I rested my head on Dante's shoulder. My heart rate was perfectly steady.
I put down the cup, my voice lazy and ruthless: "Notify the demolition team in New York. They can start blowing up the old estate in Chicago."
