Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Photographs
The monitors beeped, a steady, mocking rhythm in the heavy silence.
I felt the blood drain entirely from my face. For a terrifying second, I thought I was going to faint right there on the linoleum floor. I gripped the foot of the bed, my knuckles turning white.
"What did you say?" I managed to get out, my voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner.
"Don't lie to me, Claire," Dante said, his chest rising and falling rapidly under the hospital gown. "I know how time works. I know when I left. And I know what I saw when my eyes opened on that table. She has my mother’s chin. She has your nose. She’s six years old, isn't she?"
I wanted to deny it. I wanted to lie through my teeth, turn on my heel, walk out of the room, and call hospital security to have his armed guards removed from the building. I wanted to protect my daughter from the monsters that lived in Dante Moretti’s world.
Instead, a bitter, harsh laugh escaped my throat.
"You left a note on a coffee mug, Dante," I said, tears burning hot behind my eyelids. "You didn't ask if I was late. You didn't leave a phone number. You didn't give me a chance to tell you anything. You just erased yourself."
Dante closed his eyes, his head dropping back against the pillow as if he’d been struck across the face with a lead pipe. A single tear slipped from beneath his eyelashes, cutting a dark path through the stubble on his cheek.
"I didn't know," he choked out, the formidable underworld king sounding like a broken boy. "God help me, Claire, I didn't know."
"Well, now you know," I snapped, wiping my face with the back of my hand, refusing to let him see me fall apart completely. "She exists. Her name is Mia. She loves horses, she paints with watercolors, and she thinks the world is a safe, bright place because I spent six years keeping her as far away from men like you as humanly possible."
Dante opened his eyes. They were burning with a terrifying, absolute intensity.
"Where is she?"
"No."
"Claire—"
"I said no!" I slammed my hand against the metal bedside railing, making the entire frame rattle. "You don't get to waltz back into my life after a six-year absence, bleed all over my trauma bay, and demand access to my daughter. You are a ghost, Dante. And as far as Mia is concerned, you’re going to stay one."
Before Dante could answer, the door swung open.
My senior resident, Dr. Kevin Hayes, walked in holding a clipboard, looking flustered and pale.
"Dr. Callahan," Kevin stammered, casting a nervous glance at the two armed enforcers standing outside the glass partition. "Um... there’s an issue downstairs in the lobby. A delegation of men... they’re demanding to speak with Mr. Moretti's legal proxy, but they're refusing to leave, and hospital administration is threatening to call the real police."
Dante didn't look at Kevin. His eyes stayed locked on me.
"Tell them to let Victor in," Dante instructed his voice flat and commanding.
"Mr. Moretti, this is a restricted medical floor—" Kevin started.
May you like
"Tell them to let Victor in," Dante repeated, his voice dropping an octave into a tone that brooked zero argument.
Kevin swallowed hard, nodded, and practically tripped backward out of the room.
