Chapter 2 - The Red Target
Clara felt the floor tilt beneath her feet. The breath was punched clean out of her lungs, leaving her gasping against the cold concrete wall of the corridor.
*The woman in the red dress.*
The words echoed in her skull with sickening clarity. She remembered the boutique downtown. Three days ago, an anonymous courier had dropped off a private catalog with an invitation to an exclusive fitting. The crimson gown had been displayed front and center, practically screaming her name, priced at an astronomical figure that guaranteed no other woman in Chicago would show up wearing it. She had thought she was being bold. She had thought she was asserting her independence, clawing back some semblance of control in a marriage where she felt like a decorative ghost.
It hadn't been an act of rebellion. It had been a sniper’s beacon.
Inside the room, Leo let out a low, ragged groan as Matteo tightened the field dressing. "Did the sniper make it out?" Leo demanded.
"No," Matteo answered, his voice devoid of emotion. "We intercepted him on the fire escape behind the civic center three minutes after the gala started. He didn't talk much before he broke his cyanide cap, but his phone had one photo saved on the screen. Clara leaving the boutique in River North yesterday afternoon."
Leo closed his eyes, his head falling back against the leather. In the harsh fluorescent light of the basement, his face was the color of wet chalk. Dark circles bruised the hollows beneath his eyes, and a sheen of cold sweat glistened on his forehead. "Moretti knew she was going. He knew she wanted to stand out. He counted on my vanity—he thought I'd parade her through the main ballroom like a trophy and let her take the heat."
"You took the bullet for her anyway, Leo," Matteo said quietly, cleaning his bloody instruments with rubbing alcohol. "You walked onto that terrace in the dark wearing her driver's coat just to draw their sweep team out into the alley."
"She’s my wife," Leo growled, though the words cost him dearly, ending in a sharp, shallow cough that brought a speck of blood to his bottom lip. "She stays out of the dirt. She thinks I'm a monster who locks her in bedrooms over silk. Let her think it. Hate keeps her safe. If she hates me, she stays away from my business. If she stays away, she stays alive."
Clara pressed both hands over her mouth, muffling the sob that tore up her throat.
Two years of bitter resentment, two years of cold dinners across twenty-foot mahogany tables, two years of assuming Leo Rossi looked at her as nothing more than collateral from her father’s debt—all of it unraveled in thirty seconds of overheard truth. He hadn't trapped her out of cruelty or territorial jealousy. He had thrown himself directly into the crosshairs to keep the bullet meant for her chest from ever leaving the barrel.
Matteo stood up, throwing a pile of blood-soaked towels into a steel bin. "I'm going to secure the perimeter gates. The outer cameras picked up two scout vehicles idling near the tree line on the north road. If Moretti's men realize you weren't finished off at the gala, they'll hit the estate before the sun comes up."
"Arm the outer perimeter," Leo ordered, his voice growing fainter as his eyes drifted shut. "Do not wake Clara. Whatever happens... do not let them get to the main house."
Matteo nodded grimly and turned toward the back exit that led directly to the underground armory.
Clara waited until Matteo’s heavy footsteps faded down the tunnel before she pushed the office door open.
The hinges gave a faint squeak. Leo’s eyes snapped open instantly, pure predator instinct flaring despite the gray pallor of shock. His right hand dipped immediately beneath his desk, coming up with a black semiautomatic pistol pointed dead at the center of the doorway.
When he saw her standing there—barefoot, trembling, wearing only her cotton shirt with tears streaming silently down her cheeks—the barrel lowered an inch. A flicker of disbelief, followed by cold fury, broke through his pain.
"Clara," he breathed, his voice scraping like sandpaper. "How the hell did you get out of that room?"
She didn't answer. She crossed the room in three swift strides, dropping to her knees beside his chair. The smell of blood was overwhelming now, metallic and warm, soaking through the fresh gauze Matteo had applied just moments ago.
"You idiot," she sobbed, reaching out with trembling fingers, hovering over the wound, terrified that touching him would shatter what little strength he had left. "You arrogant, reckless idiot."
Leo tried to pull away, to rebuild the wall of stoic cruelty he had maintained for twenty-four months, but the movement tore at his side, making him hiss in agony. "You shouldn't be down here. Go back upstairs. Lock the door."
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"Shut up, Leo," Clara said, her voice cracking as she grabbed a clean towel from the tray and pressed down firmly against the bleeding edge of the bandage. "You don't get to order me around while you're bleeding out in a basement. Keep pressure on this. We need a real doctor."
"I told you... no doctors," he panted, his hand coming up to weakly grip her wrist. His fingers were icy, but his grip still held that familiar, unyielding stubbornness. "The network is compromised. If I show weakness, my own capos will turn on this house before breakfast. We are entirely on our own."
