Chapter 4 - The Past Awakes
Hannah’s breathing became shallow and fast. Her hands began to tremble uncontrollably, dropping the needlework onto the floor.
Jimmy.
The name alone was enough to send a cold spike of horror through her chest. The memory of his heavy boots echoing on the hardwood floor, the smell of cheap gin on his breath, and the horrific sound of her own bones breaking as she tumbled down the cellar stairs rushed back to overwhelm her.
"He... he found me?" she stammered, backing away until her spine hit the nursery wall. "How did he find me? I changed my number. I cleared my address..."
"When fifty thousand dollars a week is wired into a newly established trust account under your name, red flags are raised in financial databases," Lorenzo said calmly, walking toward her with measured steps. "Your ex-boyfriend has a cousin who works at a local credit union. He tracked the origin of the transfer to the Rossi holding company. He came here thinking he was going to blackmail a billionaire for holding his woman captive."
"I'm not his woman!" Hannah cried out, her voice cracking with terror. "He killed my baby, Mr. Rossi! He threw me down the stairs when I was eight months pregnant! Please... please don't let him near me!"
Lorenzo stopped a foot away from her. He looked down at her terrified face, noting the absolute, raw panic in her eyes. There was no deceit in her reaction; it was pure, unadulterated trauma.
"He is currently in the holding cell beneath the security guardhouse," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a register that was terrifyingly calm. "He believes he has leverage. He threatened to go to the tabloid press and claim I am operating an illegal surrogacy ring using vulnerable women."
"He’s a monster," Hannah wept, burying her face in her hands. "He will ruin everything. He’ll take me back... he’ll..."
"Nobody takes anything from this estate," Lorenzo interrupted, his tone chillingly smooth. "And nobody threatens my family. Come with me."
"What?" Hannah looked up, wiping her eyes.
"You are coming downstairs," Lorenzo ordered, turning toward the door. "You are going to look that man in the eye, and you are going to tell me what you want done with him."
"Mr. Rossi, I can't look at him—"
"You will," Lorenzo commanded, stopping at the doorway and looking back over his shoulder. "In my world, Hannah, fear is a weed. If you don't pull it out by the roots, it chokes the life out of everything you build. You are feeding the heir to the Rossi name. I will not have a terrified woman raising my son. Stand up."
Hannah swallowed the lump of bile in her throat. She looked at Leo, who was sleeping peacefully in his crib, oblivious to the storm gathering outside. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and followed Lorenzo Rossi down into the dark underbelly of the estate.
They descended into the basement level beneath the east wing, passing through three reinforced security doors until they reached a small, concrete-walled monitoring room. Behind a thick pane of one-way mirror glass stood Jimmy Vance.
He was wearing a torn leather jacket, his hair greasy, his face flushed with anger as he paced the cell, cursing at the security camera in the corner.
"He doesn't know we are standing here," Lorenzo said softly, leaning against the control console. "He thinks he is waiting for a settlement payout. He thinks I am going to write him a check for five hundred thousand dollars to sign a non-disclosure agreement."
Hannah stared at the man who had stolen her child’s life, her body reliving every hit, every scream, every ounce of terror. But as she stood beside Lorenzo—a man who commanded legions of shadows with a single glance—she felt something shift inside her. The fear began to curdle into a cold, hard anger.
"What were you going to do to him?" Hannah asked quietly.
Lorenzo pulled a thin silver cigar case from his pocket, opening it deliberately. "I was going to have my men put him in a boat, take him twelve miles out into international waters, and throw him overboard with fifty pounds of industrial chain wrapped around his ankles. It takes approximately three minutes for a man to drown in the Atlantic. His body would never be found."
Hannah gasped, looking at Lorenzo in absolute shock. He lit his cigar with a gold lighter, his face illuminated by the yellow flame. He spoke of murder with the same nonchalance one might use to discuss the weather.
"However," Lorenzo continued, puffing a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling, "I am offering you a choice. I can execute him tonight, and you will never hear his name again. Or, I can hand over the evidence of your assault to the District Attorney—a man who owes his entire career to my foundation—and ensure he spends the next thirty years in a maximum-security prison being brutalized by men far worse than him."
Hannah looked back through the glass at Jimmy. Her heart pounded in her ears.
May you like
"If he goes to prison..." Hannah whispered, "he stays alive."
"He does," Lorenzo agreed. "And every day he wakes up in a six-by-eight cell, he will regret the day he touched you. But the decision is yours. Life, or death. Choose."
