Page 1 of His Savage Ruin
CHAPTER ONE
Alessia
I shouldn't be here.
The thought hammers through my skull as I stand on this godforsaken Chicago Street, surrounded by crumbling buildings and broken dreams. Graffiti tags cover every surface like infected wounds, and the smell of piss and decay hits me like a physical blow, making my stomach clench and bile rise in my throat. This isn't the kind of neighborhood a Moretti wife should be caught dead in…
Which is exactly why I'm here.
I pause near a rusted fire escape, pretending to check my reflection in a shop window that's completely cracked. The movement lets me scan the street behind me without being obvious about it. Old habits die hard, and paranoia has kept me alive this long. A black sedan idles at the corner, exhaust puffinggray clouds into the autumn air. The driver's been there since I arrived twenty minutes ago. Too long for it to be a coincidence.
My phone buzzes against my ribs, the vibration sharp enough to make me flinch. Only three people have this number, and one of them is dead. Has been for forty-five days now.
The caller ID makes my stomach clench:Don Emilio Moretti.
My father-in-law. The man who owns half of Chicago's politicians and all of its fear. I can't ignore him—no one ignores Don Emilio and lives to regret it. But answering means lying, and I'm so fucking tired of lying.
"Papà," I say, forcing warmth into my voice as I accept the call. The Italian rolls off my tongue like honey, sweet and practiced. "How are you feeling today?"
"Alessia." His voice cuts through the phone line like broken glass—sharp, cold, unforgiving. Even through the speaker, it carries the weight of absolute authority. "Where are you?"
My free hand finds the small knife tucked inside my purse, fingers curling around the familiar weight. Lorenzo gave it to me on our wedding night, a pretty little thing with a pearl handle.For protection,he'd said, not knowing I'd learn to sleep with it under my pillow. Protection from him.
"At the doctor's office," I lie smoothly, my eyes never leaving the street. A man pretends to read a newspaper across the street, butthe pages haven't turned once since I've been watching. "Getting some routine tests done. Nothing to worry about."
"Tests." The word hangs in the air like smoke. "What kind of tests, daughter?"
Daughter.He only calls me that when he wants something, or when he's about to deliver bad news. Sometimes both.
"Just follow-up care,Papà. You know how doctors are—they want to monitor everything, especially with..." I let my voice trail off, leaving the implication hanging. The pregnancy that doesn't exist. The grandchild that will never be born. The lie that's kept me alive for forty-five days.
"Sì, of course." His tone softens fractionally, and I can picture him in his study, surrounded by the dark wood and darker secrets that define the Moretti legacy. "The memorial is in one hour, Alessia. You will be there."
It's not a request. Don Emilio doesn't make requests—he issues commands, and smart people follow them. The forty-day memorial for Lorenzo. Catholic tradition demands it, and the Morettis bow to tradition when it suits them.
"Of course," I say, checking my watch. The appointment inside will take ten minutes, fifteen at most. Plenty of time to get this done and make it home to play the grieving widow. Again. "I'll be back within the hour." "Good." A pause, long enough for me to wonder what he's thinking, what he knows. "And Alessia? Take care of yourself. That baby is precious to all of us."
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my reflection in the cracked window. Dark auburn hair pulled back in a neat chignon, golden-brown eyes that have learned to hide too much, skin that's finally lost the sickly pallor it carried for months. I look like a respectable mafia wife. The perfect widow.
If only they knew the truth.
I turn away from the window and face the building that is the reason I am in this neighborhood. The Chicago Family Health Center squats between a check-cashing place and a store that definitely doesn't sell the kind of merchandise advertised in its blacked-out windows. The clinic's sign flickers on and off, the 'H' in 'Health' strobing like a dying heartbeat. Paint peels from the door frame, and the single window facing the street is covered with bars that have seen better years.
It's perfect. No one from my world would ever set foot in a place like this, which makes it invisible. And invisibility, I've learned, is its own kind of power.
The door sticks when I push it, requiring actual effort to get inside. The waiting room is a study in despair—worn linoleum floors in a color that might have once been white, fluorescent lights that flicker and buzz like dying insects, and the kind of furniture that's designed to be uncomfortable. The air tastes of antiseptic and something fouler underneath, something that speaks of too many desperate people passing through these doors.
A receptionist sits behind bulletproof glass, her eyes the color of old pennies and just as lifeless. She doesn't look up when I enter, doesn't acknowledge my existence until I tap my knuckles against her window.
"Name?" she asks, voice flat as roadkill.
"Smith," I say. "I have an appointment with Dr. Carter."
She consults a schedule that looks like it was typed on a machine from the Carter administration, running one chipped fingernail down the page. "Room three. He'll be with you shortly."
I take a seat in one of the molded plastic chairs, crossing my legs carefully and keeping my purse close. The knife inside feels heavier now, more necessary. Two other people wait in the small space—a teenager who can't be more than sixteen, staring at her hands with the kind of desperation that makes my chest tight, and an older woman whose face tells stories I don't want to read.
This is where hope comes to die, where desperate people make desperate choices. Where Mrs. Lorenzo Moretti can become just another woman with a problem that money can solve.
