Chapter 2 - The Mark Beneath My Coat
Lorenzo stared at the scar as though he could undo it through rage alone.
His face became so still that I knew exactly what was happening beneath the surface.
Calculation.
Names.
Addresses.
Vehicles.
People.
Lorenzo had been raised by men who believed emotion should always become strategy.
His father had once told him anger was useless unless it could be aimed.
Now I watched him aim it.
“Who?” he asked.
I pulled my sweater back over my shoulder.
“Not here.”
“Give me a name.”
“You already know the name.”
“Valenti has two hundred men.”
“And if I tell you the wrong one?”
“I’ll start with all two hundred.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
It came out as a cough.
A terrible, chest-rattling cough that bent me forward.
Lorenzo’s anger disappeared behind immediate concern.
He caught my shoulders.
“Easy.”
“Don’t.”
“You can barely breathe.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are very obviously not fine.”
I pushed against him.
It accomplished nothing.
The alley tilted.
Snow blurred.
For one humiliating moment, my knees simply stopped holding me.
Lorenzo caught me before I hit the ground.
His arm went around my waist.
“No.”
I fought weakly.
“Let go.”
“You’re burning up.”
“I can’t go with you.”
“You are going somewhere warm.”
“No Chicago.”
“I didn’t say Chicago.”
“You’ll take me there eventually.”
He looked at me.
“I’m not taking you anywhere you don’t agree to go.”
Fourteen days earlier, that promise would have felt natural.
Now I searched his face for a trap.
He noticed.
Something painful flashed in his eyes.
“What did they do to you that made you afraid of me?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me.”
Another cough stole my answer.
Lorenzo swore softly.
He bent and picked me up.
I stiffened.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“Lorenzo.”
“You can hate me when your fever is under control.”
“I don’t hate you.”
He stopped walking.
The words had escaped before I could stop them.
Snow gathered on his shoulders.
He looked down at me.
“You don’t?”
I turned my face away.
“That was never the problem.”
He carried me toward the SUV.
One of his men opened the rear door.
I recognized him immediately.
Marco Santori.
Lorenzo’s closest friend since childhood.
Marco’s usually calm face changed when he saw me.
“Jesus.”
“Not a word,” Lorenzo said.
Marco’s mouth closed.
Lorenzo placed me carefully in the rear seat.
The interior was warm.
Too warm.
Heat hit my frozen skin like needles.
I began shivering harder.
Lorenzo climbed in beside me.
Marco took the front passenger seat.
A driver I did not recognize pulled away.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“A private house ten minutes away.”
“No hospitals.”
Lorenzo frowned.
“You need a doctor.”
“No hospital.”
“Why?”
“Because someone will know.”
“I can bring a doctor to us.”
I hesitated.
“Someone you trust?”
“There are three people on earth I trust right now.”
“That many?”
Marco glanced backward.
Lorenzo ignored him.
“Doctor Elias Ward treated me when I was shot at twenty-three. He has never sold a word about this family.”
“Fine.”
Lorenzo immediately made the call.
He did not mention my name.
He gave an address and said only, “Respiratory infection. Fever. Possible exposure.”
When he disconnected, I stared at the fogged window.
Outside, Crested Butte moved past in blurred lights.
“How did you find me?”
“The pharmacy.”
I closed my eyes.
“I knew it.”
“You almost got away.”
“Almost doesn’t count.”
“It counted for fourteen days.”
“Were you looking the whole time?”
He turned toward me.
“What do you think?”
I did not answer.
“I stopped sleeping on the third night.”
My chest tightened.
“Lorenzo…”
“Don’t apologize yet. I don’t know what I’m forgiving.”
That was fair.
More than fair.
The house stood beyond town, a modern stone-and-timber lodge hidden behind pine trees.
No neighboring buildings.
No obvious guards.
Which meant there were guards.
Lorenzo carried me inside despite my protests.
The living room had a stone fireplace, heavy wooden beams, and broad windows overlooking black mountains almost erased by snow.
Someone had already lit the fire.
I sat on the sofa wrapped in two blankets while Lorenzo stood near the fireplace.
Neither of us spoke.
Marco disappeared after checking the rooms.
When Doctor Ward arrived twenty minutes later, he confirmed bronchitis bordering on pneumonia.
“You’re dehydrated,” he told me.
He gave me medication, fluids, and very specific instructions.
“You sleep. You stay warm. You don’t run anywhere.”
“I wasn’t planning on jogging.”
The doctor looked at Lorenzo.
“She needs at least forty-eight hours before travel.”
“We’re not traveling.”
I looked up sharply.
Lorenzo met my gaze.
He meant it.
For now.
The doctor packed his bag.
At the door, Lorenzo stopped him.
“You saw the scar?”
Doctor Ward hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Burn?”
“Old enough to be closed. Recent enough to still be painful.”
“How recent?”
“Two to three weeks.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
After the doctor left, Marco returned.
“We’re secure.”
Lorenzo nodded.
“Phones outside this room.”
Marco frowned.
“Mine too?”
“Everyone’s.”
Marco placed his phone on the hallway table and left us alone.
Lorenzo moved to the chair opposite the sofa.
He removed his gloves.
For the first time, I saw his hands shaking.
He noticed me looking and clenched them.
“Tell me.”
I stared at the fire.
“If I do, you’ll go after them.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why I couldn’t tell you.”
“So you let me believe you betrayed me instead?”
“I let you hate me because hatred kept you alive.”
His eyes hardened.
“You don’t get to decide what keeps me alive.”
“They showed me photographs.”
“What photographs?”
“Your routes. Your office. Your mother’s house. Marco’s apartment.”
Lorenzo went still.
“They knew which restaurant you used on Thursdays. They knew where your mother goes to Mass.”
His expression changed.
That frightened him more than the scar.
I continued.
“They knew everything.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were taken three nights before the wedding.”
I nodded.
“From where?”
“The parking garage beneath my office.”
He leaned forward.
“You told me your car battery died.”
“That’s what they told me to say.”
“Who took you?”
“Men I didn’t recognize. They covered my face.”
“How long?”
“Six hours, maybe seven.”
“What did they want?”
I pulled the blanket tighter.
“At first, information.”
“What kind?”
“Shipping routes. Names. Passwords. Accounts.”
“You don’t know those.”
“I told them that.”
“And?”
“They believed me eventually.”
Lorenzo’s face darkened.
“What happened before they believed you?”
I stared at him.
He already knew enough to imagine it.
“That scar?”
“Yes.”
His eyes closed briefly.
I had never seen Lorenzo look helpless.
I hated it.
“They burned the Valenti crest into my back,” I said. “Then they took photographs.”
His eyes opened.
“Photographs?”
“Of me tied to the chair. Of the mark. Of one of Valenti’s men standing behind me.”
Understanding moved across Lorenzo’s face.
“They could make it look voluntary.”
“They said they’d send the photographs to you if I didn’t cooperate.”
“What did cooperation mean?”
“Leave the wedding.”
His breathing changed.
“They told you to run.”
“Yes.”
“And the letter?”
“They said they’d leave one.”
“What else?”
I hesitated.
His voice softened.
“Amelia.”
“They said if I ever contacted you, if I ever told you the truth, they’d kill someone you loved.”
“Who?”
“They didn’t specify.”
“That was the point.”
“Yes.”
He leaned back.
The fire cracked between us.
Finally he asked, “Why did you wait until the wedding day to run?”
“Because they wanted maximum damage.”
Lorenzo’s face hardened.
“They wanted the families to see.”
“They wanted everyone to believe I humiliated you.”
“And they wanted me angry enough not to question it.”
I nodded.
“They knew you.”
“No,” Lorenzo said quietly. “They knew the man I used to be.”
I looked at him.
He stood and paced to the window.
Outside, the storm raged against the glass.
“What happened after they released you?”
“I went home.”
“You slept beside me that night.”
My throat closed.
“Yes.”
His back remained to me.
“I asked why you were shaking.”
“I told you I was nervous about the wedding.”
“You let me hold you.”
I looked down.
“Yes.”
Lorenzo pressed one hand against the window frame.
“You were hurt.”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You should have told me.”
“And if you were dead the next morning?”
“I would have protected you.”
“They had someone inside your organization.”
That turned him around.
“What?”
“I heard them talking.”
“When?”
“While they thought I was unconscious.”
“What did they say?”
My pulse began racing.
I had avoided remembering this part.
“One man said, ‘Bianco won’t see it coming. His own blood opened the door.’”
Lorenzo’s face became unreadable.
“His own blood?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve heard those words every night for two weeks.”
Lorenzo sat down slowly.
His own blood.
Not an employee.
Not a guard.
Family.
The Bianco organization had survived thirty-seven years because loyalty was enforced at every level.
But betrayal from inside—
That could destroy everything.
“Who knew your wedding schedule?” I asked.
“Hundreds of people.”
“Who knew your mother’s church schedule?”
His eyes sharpened.
“Fewer.”
“Who knew my office garage didn’t have functioning cameras that week?”
A long silence followed.
Then Lorenzo whispered a name.
“No.”
“What?”
He looked at me.
“My cousin Dante supervised security upgrades in that building.”
I remembered Dante Bianco.
Charming.
Funny.
Always smiling.
Best man at our wedding.
The person who had hugged me two hours before I ran.
My skin went cold despite the fire.
“Lorenzo…”
He stood abruptly.
“No assumptions.”
“But—”
“No assumptions until I know.”
He crossed toward the hallway.
“Where are you going?”
“To talk to Marco.”
Fear shot through me.
I grabbed his wrist.
He looked down.
“Don’t tell anyone yet.”
“I trust Marco.”
“You trusted whoever did this.”
His eyes met mine.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then Lorenzo slowly sat beside me.
Close enough that our knees touched.
He lowered his voice.
“All right.”
The response surprised me.
“You believe me?”
“I believe the scar.”
That hurt.
He saw it.
“And I believe you,” he added.
I turned away.
He reached toward my hand, stopped, then let his own hand fall.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were strange from Lorenzo.
Rare.
Expensive.
“I spent fourteen days telling myself I hated you,” he said.
“You had every reason.”
“No. I had a convenient story.”
I swallowed hard.
He studied the fire.
“I should have noticed.”
“How?”
“The way you looked at me that morning.”
I remembered.
Standing in the bridal suite.
My wedding dress hanging behind me.
Lorenzo had broken tradition and come upstairs before the ceremony.
He had smiled.
I had nearly collapsed into his arms and told him everything.
But outside the window, across the street, I had seen a man in a gray coat.
Watching.
So I kissed Lorenzo.
Told him I loved him.
And sent him downstairs.
“That kiss,” he said softly. “You were saying goodbye.”
“Yes.”
He finally looked at me.
“You thought you’d never see me again?”
My voice cracked.
“I hoped I wouldn’t.”
Pain flashed across his face.
“Because that meant you were alive.”
I nodded.
Lorenzo reached for my hand.
This time, I let him.
His fingers wrapped around mine.
Warm.
Familiar.
Dangerous because they felt like home.
Then a sound came from the hallway.
A phone vibrating.
Marco entered.
His face was serious.
“Lorenzo.”
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
Lorenzo stood.
Marco looked at me, then back at him.
“Someone knows we found her.”
Every muscle in my body locked.
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Marco held out the phone.
A message had appeared from an unregistered number.
There was no text.
Only a photograph.
Taken less than an hour earlier.
It showed Lorenzo carrying me from the alley toward the SUV.
Beneath the image were six words.
You should have left her buried.
My lungs forgot how to breathe.
Because the threat confirmed what I had feared from the beginning.
May you like
The Valenti family had not stopped watching me.
And the traitor inside Lorenzo’s family knew exactly where we were.
