Chapter 3 - The Guarded Hallway Where Six Hardened Killers Lost Their Minds
Back on the second floor, the five-minute hug was entering its third minute.
Lorenzo Duca was still kneeling on the marble floor.
His arms—accustomed to holding heavy firearms, signing multi-million-dollar shipping contracts, and occasionally breaking the collarbones of disloyal lieutenants—were wrapped gently around a child who smelled faintly of strawberry shampoo and cheap laundry detergent.
Mia rested her small head against his broad chest, her ear pressed directly over his heart.
“Your ticker goes thump-thump,” she whispered happily.
“It’s a heart, Mia,” Lorenzo corrected softly, his voice barely audible even in the quiet corridor. “It’s supposed to do that.”
“It sounds like a drum,” she decided. “Mr. Buttons likes it.”
Behind them, Viktor, the head of Lorenzo’s personal security detail—a six-foot-six ex-Spetsnaz operative with a jagged scar running from his ear to his jawline—cleared his throat. It was a microscopic movement, just enough to signal his presence.
“Boss,” Viktor murmured, keeping his eyes respectfully fixed on a sixteenth-century oil painting of a Venetian canal. “The service elevator. Someone is coming up from the ground floor.”
Lorenzo didn't let go of Mia immediately.
He gave her one last, gentle squeeze, marveling at how impossibly fragile she felt in his arms—like a bird made of glass and paper—before standing up to his full height.
He adjusted his jacket, smoothing down the front where her small hands had left faint wrinkles in the charcoal wool.
“Remember,” Lorenzo told her, looking down into her hazel eyes. “You were never in this hallway. You were coloring in the staff room.”
Mia nodded solemnly, clutching Mr. Buttons tighter.
“Can I have another hug later?” she asked.
Before Lorenzo could formulate an answer, the service elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
Clara Bennett stumbled out of the car, her face pale, her hair coming loose from its messy bun, panting as she clutched a cleaning sponge in her right hand like a weapon.
“Mia!” Clara cried out, spotting her daughter standing next to the most feared man in Chicago.
Every single muscle in Lorenzo’s body snapped back into its customary, lethal posture.
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The soft, confused vulnerability of a moment ago vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, calculating mask of the Marble Prince.
He turned his dark, unblinking gaze toward the terrified young mother standing twenty feet away.
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