Chapter 1 The Scars No One Was Meant to See
The room remained perfectly still.
Only Harper's trembling breaths disturbed the silence.
Pearls rolled slowly across the polished walnut floor before disappearing beneath the enormous mahogany bed. One struck the leg of a leather chair with a tiny click that sounded impossibly loud.
Enzo DeLuca couldn't move.
He had spent half his life looking at wounds.
Knife wounds.
Gunshot wounds.
Broken ribs after warehouse fights.
Men burned alive inside exploding cars.
He had stitched soldiers, criminals, cousins, and enemies together with his own hands because waiting for an ambulance wasn't always an option in his world.
But nothing...
Nothing had prepared him for what covered Harper Whitcomb's back.
Some scars were thin white lines.
Others were thick ropes of damaged flesh stretching from shoulder blade to waist.
Several crossed one another with terrifying precision.
Parallel.
Evenly spaced.
The unmistakable marks left by years of being whipped with a leather belt.
There were cigarette burns near her left shoulder.
A long surgical scar along her ribs.
And near the center of her back...
A branding mark.
Small.
Circular.
Old.
As if someone had once pressed hot metal against a little girl's skin.
Harper remained curled on the floor, clutching the torn front of her wedding dress.
She didn't dare look at him.
Instead, she whispered the same sentence over and over.
"I'm sorry..."
"I'm sorry..."
"I'm sorry..."
Each apology sounded smaller than the last.
Enzo suddenly understood something horrifying.
She wasn't apologizing because the dress had torn.
She was apologizing because she believed pain always came next.
For several endless seconds...
Neither of them spoke.
Then Enzo quietly removed his tuxedo jacket.
Harper immediately covered her head with both arms.
"No..."
"Please..."
"I'll kneel."
"I'll clean anything."
"I won't cry."
The words poured out automatically.
Practiced.
Learned.
As natural as breathing.
Enzo's heartbeat slowed.
Every instinct screamed that something about tonight had been wrong from the beginning.
He carefully draped the jacket across her shoulders.
Harper froze.
She blinked.
Slowly.
Confused.
He had expected fear.
He hadn't expected disbelief.
She looked at the jacket as though no one had ever covered her before.
"Stand up," Enzo said quietly.
Harper hesitated.
"I..."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"My legs..."
She looked embarrassed.
"They stop working sometimes."
Enzo frowned.
He crouched beside her.
"Did you hit your head?"
She quickly shook it.
"No."
"They always do this after..."
She stopped herself.
"After what?"
Silence.
Enzo noticed bruises around both wrists.
Almost hidden beneath the lace sleeves.
Fresh.
Purple.
Finger-shaped.
His jaw tightened.
Those bruises hadn't come from today.
Someone had grabbed her recently.
Hard.
Without asking permission again, Enzo carefully slipped one arm beneath her knees and another behind her shoulders.
Harper gasped.
"No!"
"You don't have to carry me."
"I weigh too much."
Enzo stared at her.
She couldn't have weighed more than one hundred pounds.
Maybe less.
"You weigh nothing."
He lifted her effortlessly.
She instinctively flinched...
Then went perfectly rigid.
Not relaxed.
Frozen.
Like a frightened animal that had learned struggling only made things worse.
Enzo laid her gently on the enormous bed.
She immediately sat upright.
Hands folded.
Eyes lowered.
Waiting.
For what...
He wasn't sure.
Punishment?
Permission?
Orders?
"I'll call a maid," Enzo said.
Harper's head snapped upward.
"No."
Her voice came out almost as a scream.
"No maids."
"No doctors."
"No one."
The panic in her face surprised him.
"Why?"
"They'll tell him."
"Who?"
She looked terrified she'd answered too quickly.
"My father."
Enzo studied her carefully.
"You're afraid of Preston."
She didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Enzo walked toward the private bar.
He poured two glasses of water.
When he handed her one...
She accepted it with both hands.
As if receiving something precious.
She whispered,
"Thank you."
Again...
Too practiced.
Too grateful.
No woman raised with unlimited wealth thanked someone for a glass of water like that.
Unless...
She had once been punished for asking.
"You haven't eaten all day."
Harper looked surprised.
"How did you know?"
"You never touched your dinner."
"I'm not usually allowed."
The sentence escaped before she could stop it.
She closed her eyes.
Damn.
Enzo heard it.
Allowed.
Not hungry.
Not dieting.
Allowed.
His voice became much softer.
"Who decides when you're allowed to eat?"
Harper stared into her glass.
"My father."
The answer barely existed above a whisper.
Enzo remembered every newspaper article written about Preston Whitcomb.
The perfect businessman.
Generous philanthropist.
Beloved father.
Chicago's Gentleman Investor.
Magazine covers.
Television interviews.
Christmas charity galas.
Always smiling beside Harper.
Always calling her...
"My greatest blessing."
Enzo suddenly wanted to punch every reporter who had ever believed the performance.
"You've had those scars..."
"...since you were a child."
Harper nodded.
Silently.
"He did that."
Another nod.
Enzo struggled to breathe.
"He beat you?"
She corrected him automatically.
"I disappointed him."
Enzo stared.
"No."
"You were beaten."
Her eyes filled.
"My father says words matter."
"He says 'beaten' sounds ugly."
Enzo's hands curled into fists.
"No."
"He made it ugly."
A long silence followed.
Outside...
Snow drifted quietly through the estate grounds.
Security lights reflected across frozen marble statues.
Inside...
The room suddenly felt much colder.
Finally...
Enzo asked the question that had haunted him since the wedding.
"Did you know about Nathan?"
Harper looked confused.
"Your brother?"
"Yes."
She nodded slowly.
"I met him once."
Enzo frowned.
"When?"
"Three years ago."
That wasn't possible.
Nathan had died almost four years earlier.
"You remember the date?"
Harper thought carefully.
"It was October."
"He came to our house."
"He argued with my father."
"He saw..."
She stopped.
"Saw what?"
Her breathing quickened.
"He wasn't supposed to."
Enzo sat beside her.
"What did Nathan see?"
Harper wrapped both arms around herself.
"My father..."
"...locked me downstairs."
"The basement?"
She nodded.
"There was a red room."
Enzo felt his stomach tighten.
"A red room?"
"I wasn't allowed outside for almost two months."
"What happened?"
Harper closed her eyes.
"I forgot."
"No."
"You didn't."
"You buried it."
Tears slipped silently down her cheeks.
"I don't want to remember."
Enzo reached into his pocket.
He removed an old silver lighter.
Nathan's lighter.
The only thing recovered beside his body.
He stared at it.
Then looked back at Harper.
"My brother wasn't collecting money from Preston."
She looked at him.
"He was investigating him."
"I know."
The words escaped before she realized what she'd admitted.
Enzo slowly stood.
"You know?"
Harper covered her mouth.
"I..."
"No."
"I shouldn't..."
"You already said it."
She began shaking violently.
"My father said if anyone ever asked..."
"...I should tell them Nathan was stealing."
"He said everyone would believe that."
Enzo's heartbeat stopped.
Nathan had been framed.
Someone knocked.
Three slow knocks.
Vincent Romano.
Enzo's oldest friend.
"Boss?"
Enzo didn't answer.
Vincent opened the bedroom door halfway.
"Everything okay?"
Then he saw Harper.
The torn dress.
The jacket around her shoulders.
The scars.
Vincent's face changed instantly.
He quietly shut the door behind him.
"What happened?"
Enzo answered without taking his eyes off Harper.
"We've been hunting the wrong person."
Vincent frowned.
"What?"
Enzo pointed toward Harper.
"Look at her."
Vincent reluctantly did.
Several seconds passed.
Then...
"Oh..."
He understood.
Vincent had grown up in Chicago's Little Italy.
He recognized belt scars.
He'd carried enough children out of abusive homes during neighborhood disputes to recognize them immediately.
He looked toward Enzo.
"Preston?"
Enzo nodded once.
Vincent swore quietly under his breath.
Harper suddenly spoke.
"So..."
"This marriage..."
Enzo looked at her.
"You still hate me."
The question sounded heartbreakingly sincere.
She wasn't accusing him.
She genuinely wanted to know.
Enzo opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
An hour ago...
He would have answered yes.
Now...
He wasn't sure who Harper Whitcomb really was.
Before anyone could speak again...
The mansion alarm suddenly activated.
Red lights flashed across the hallway.
A security guard shouted downstairs.
"Boss!"
Vincent ran toward the window.
Three black SUVs sped through the front gate.
They hadn't stopped.
They had smashed directly through.
Gunmen poured out.
Automatic rifles.
Night-vision gear.
Military formation.
Vincent's expression hardened.
"That's not the FBI."
Enzo already knew.
Only one organization in Chicago moved like that.
The Moretti Syndicate.
Their oldest enemies.
Another guard screamed over the radio.
"They're heading straight for the master suite!"
Enzo immediately pulled open a hidden cabinet.
Inside waited several pistols and assault rifles.
Vincent armed himself.
Enzo grabbed a handgun.
Harper stared in horror.
"Why are they here?"
Enzo looked toward the shattered front gate visible through the bedroom windows.
"They didn't come for me."
Harper frowned.
"What?"
Enzo slowly turned toward her.
His voice became dangerously calm.
"They came..."
"...for you."
Just then—
A deafening explosion rocked the mansion.
The hallway outside erupted into gunfire.
The bedroom lights flickered.
Someone on the other side of the door shouted—
"Find the Whitcomb girl! She's leaving here dead!"
Harper's face lost every trace of color.
May you like
One whispered name escaped her lips.
"...Father."
