Chapter 3 - The Ghost's Mark
|
They forced her into the same windowless room where her nightmare had begun.
The harsh overhead light swung slightly, casting moving shadows across the steel table. The guards shoved her into the metal chair. Her hands were still zip-tied behind her back. The torn fabric of her dress hung uselessly around her waist, exposing her left shoulder and collarbone.
The heavy door opened, and Elias Moretti walked in.
He wore a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a dark waistcoat. He looked immaculate, well-fed, and perfectly rested—a brutal contrast to her shivering, filthy state.
“Three days, Miss Hayes,” Elias said, dropping a thick file onto the table. “Have you decided to tell me who paid you to map the security grid of my estate?”
“I told you the truth,” Seraphina rasped, her throat dry and raw. “I am a nanny. Nothing more.”
Elias leaned forward, resting his palms flat on the steel table. His gray eyes were cold, filled with the lethal patience of an executioner.
“I brought a team of specialists to sweep the south parlor,” Elias said softly. “They found a microscopic listening device tapped directly into the floor sensor. Someone has been recording my private meetings for six months. You expect me to believe you aren't involved?”
“I don't know anything about bugs or spies!” she cried out, shrinking back against the metal chair. “I just wanted to make a living! I just wanted to take care of Leo!”
Elias sneered, disgusted by what he perceived as a weak performance.
He walked slowly around the table, stopping directly behind her chair. He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear.
“If you do not give me a name in the next ten seconds, I will have Stefan take you to the cliffs,” Elias whispered. “And your mother will never know what happened to you.”
Seraphina closed her eyes, hot tears spilling over her lashes. She was going to die because of a blinking red light and a dusty Persian rug.
As Elias straightened up, his gaze drifted downward.
He looked at her exposed left shoulder, illuminated perfectly by the harsh overhead bulb.
He froze.
The air in the room vanished. The absolute, terrifying silence stretched for one second. Then two.
Carved into the pale skin just below her collarbone was a jagged, horrific scar. It was shaped like a crescent moon, intersecting with a deep, straight line—the unmistakable, jagged path of a serrated hunting knife.
It was a wound that had healed poorly, leaving a puckered, violent ridge of tissue that screamed of a childhood trauma.
Elias stepped back, his face draining of all color. He looked as if he had just been struck by lightning. His gray eyes, normally devoid of emotion, widened in sheer, unadulterated shock.
“Where did you get that scar?” Elias demanded, his voice dropping into a hoarse, unrecognizable rasp.
Seraphina trembled, trying desperately to twist her shoulder away from his gaze. “It was an accident. When I was little.”
“Lie to me again, and I will cut your throat,” Elias roared, the sudden explosion of violence making her scream.
He grabbed the back of her chair, spinning her around to face him. He dropped to his knees on the concrete floor, staring at the scar as if looking at a ghost.
“That is a Corsican blade mark,” Elias whispered, his hands shaking slightly as they hovered inches from her skin. “A specific strike used by my father’s enforcers. Twenty years ago. During the massacre at the Falcone estate.”
May you like
He looked up, his eyes locking onto hers with a terrifying, earth-shattering realization.
“You were supposed to be dead.”
