It shattered against the wall inches from my head. Shards of glass rained down on us, glittering like deadly confetti. I flinched, curling my body tighter around Mrs. Rosa, shielding her face with my shoulder.
“Mrs. Moretti,” I whispered into her ear, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to be brave. “I’ve got you. Just breathe. I’m here. I won’t let her touch you again.”
Mrs. Rosa couldn’t speak. The stroke she’d suffered three months ago had stolen half her words, leaving her trapped in a prison of silence. But her hands—her thin, paper-dry hands—clutched my nurse’s uniform with a strength born of pure fear.
Then, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“What the hell is going on here?”
The voice came from the arched doorway. Low. Controlled. Dangerous.
I froze.
Dante Moretti stood there. The King of Chicago. At thirty-three, he wore his power like he wore his bespoke black three-piece suit—immaculate, intimidating, and terrifying. His steel-gray eyes swept over the scene, taking in every detail.
His mother cowering. His fiancé trembling theatrically. And me, the Puerto Rican caregiver, kneeling on the floor with my arms wrapped around his mother.
Serena moved faster than a viper strike.
