Chapter 2 - The Woman in the Rain
Eight years earlier, Della Marsh had been twenty-two years old, broke, exhausted, and angry at the weather.
She had worked a double shift at Miller's Diner and missed the last bus home.
The rain began five minutes later.
By midnight, her secondhand green coat was soaked through.
Her shoes made wet squeaking sounds against the pavement as she hurried down Fulton Street toward the subway.
She noticed the blood before she noticed the man.
Rain diluted it into pink streams running toward the gutter.
Della stopped.
Every reasonable instinct told her to keep moving.
This neighborhood wasn't safe after midnight.
Especially for a young woman alone.
Then the man moved.
Barely.
His shoulder shifted against a brick wall.
Della crossed the street.
“Sir?”
No answer.
She moved closer.
He was young—maybe twenty-eight.
Expensive black shirt.
Blood covering one side.
His eyes opened when she crouched beside him.
“Go.”
His voice was almost nothing.
“What?”
“Leave.”
Della looked down and saw the wound.
“Oh my God.”
“Don't call police.”
“That wasn't my first thought.”
His hand caught her wrist.
Surprisingly strong for someone losing that much blood.
“No police.”
Della should have run.
Instead she pulled off her scarf and pressed it against his side.
He cursed.
“Good,” she said.
His eyes opened.
“What?”
“If it hurts, you're alive.”
Somewhere nearby, tires rolled slowly through rain.
The man tensed.
Della noticed headlights approaching the alley.
His fingers tightened on her wrist.
“They're looking for me.”
That should have been enough.
It wasn't.
Della had been raised by a mother who once stopped traffic to rescue a dog and a father who gave his winter jacket to a homeless stranger and then spent two weeks complaining about being cold.
Walking away wasn't in her blood.
“Can you stand?”
“No.”
“That's inconvenient.”
Despite everything, the man almost smiled.
Della looked toward the street.
A yellow taxi appeared.
She ran directly into the road.
The driver slammed his brakes.
“What are you doing?”
“I need help!”
“No.”
“There's a man dying!”
“Call 911.”
“He'll be dead before they get here.”
The driver tried pulling away.
Della slapped both hands onto his hood.
“If you leave, I will stand here until you run me over.”
The driver stared at her.
“You're crazy.”
“So help me quickly.”
Three minutes later, the taxi driver was helping Della drag an unconscious Luca Moretti into the back seat.
She hadn't known his name.
Hadn't known he was the youngest son of a powerful family.
Hadn't known the men searching for him belonged to a rival organization trying to finish what they'd started.
She only knew his breathing was getting weaker.
She kept pressure on his wound all the way to St. Vincent's Hospital.
Luca woke once.
He remembered looking at her hand.
A crescent-shaped scar.
“What's your name?”
“Della.”
Then darkness.
When Luca opened his eyes again, three days had passed.
His brother Matteo was sitting beside his hospital bed.
“What happened?”
“You almost died.”
“The woman.”
Matteo frowned.
“What woman?”
“The woman who brought me here.”
The hospital knew almost nothing.
The taxi driver had disappeared before anyone questioned him.
Della had written only her first name on the emergency intake form because she had panicked when several armed men arrived looking for Luca.
She assumed they were criminals.
She was correct.
She left.
Luca spent eight years looking for her.
And eventually assumed he never would.
Until a mirror broke inside his hotel.
---
Now, sitting in an examination room at St. Matthew's Medical Center, Della listened while a doctor moved an ultrasound wand across her stomach.
Luca stood near the door.
He had insisted on coming.
Della had objected.
He had ignored the objection.
The screen flickered.
A heartbeat filled the room.
Fast.
Strong.
Della covered her mouth.
Tears came instantly.
“Baby looks good,” the doctor said.
“Really?”
“Everything I'm seeing is reassuring. We still want to observe you for several hours because of the fall.”
Della nodded.
Luca exhaled.
Only then did Della realize he'd been holding his breath too.
The doctor left.
Silence settled.
Della stared at the ultrasound photograph in her hands.
“You didn't have to stay.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
Luca leaned against the wall.
“You know why.”
“Because I helped you eight years ago?”
“You saved me.”
“I called a taxi.”
“You held pressure on a gunshot wound for twenty-three minutes.”
Della looked up sharply.
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything.”
She looked back at the photograph.
“I thought you died.”
“I almost did.”
“That explains the blood.”
Luca almost laughed.
It surprised both of them.
Della studied him.
“You're different.”
“You barely knew me.”
“You were less intimidating unconscious.”
That time he did laugh.
Short.
Quiet.
But real.
Della smiled despite herself.
Then the examination-room door opened.
A hospital administrator appeared.
“Mr. Moretti?”
“Yes.”
“There's an issue outside.”
Luca stepped into the hallway.
Evan Vance was waiting.
Cordelia wasn't.
“Where is she?”
“Police took her statement.”
“And?”
Evan swallowed.
“She says Della attacked her first.”
Luca's expression didn't change.
“You saw the camera.”
“I did.”
“So did the police.”
Evan lowered his voice.
“Mr. Moretti, I'm not defending what Cordelia did.”
“You're about to.”
“No.”
“Then don't.”
Evan rubbed his forehead.
“I need five minutes.”
“You've had three weeks trying to get five minutes.”
“This is different.”
“No. This is exactly why you wanted the meeting.”
Evan's family company, Vance Urban Development, owed nearly two hundred million dollars across several projects.
Banks were nervous.
Investors were disappearing.
Moretti Holdings controlled a waterfront parcel necessary for Vance's largest development.
Without access, the project died.
Without the project, Vance Development might collapse.
Evan had expected negotiation.
He hadn't expected his fiancée to assault Luca Moretti's long-lost rescuer hours before the meeting.
“Please don't punish twelve hundred employees for Cordelia.”
Luca regarded him carefully.
That argument landed.
Evan noticed.
“My father made mistakes,” he continued. “I've made mistakes. But there are people working for us who have mortgages and kids.”
“Then perhaps your family should have remembered that before building a business on leverage and intimidation.”
Evan looked down.
Luca walked away.
“Is the deal dead?”
Luca stopped.
“I haven't decided.”
Evan glanced through the window of Della's room.
She was sitting alone.
He understood immediately.
The decision was no longer entirely Luca's.
---
Cordelia returned to the Vance penthouse just after midnight.
Her father was waiting.
Richard Vance had spent forty years becoming powerful.
He had survived recessions, lawsuits, divorces, investigations, hostile takeovers, and two heart attacks.
He had never looked at his daughter the way he looked at her that night.
“What did you do?”
Cordelia dropped her purse.
“It was exaggerated.”
“There is video.”
“She provoked me.”
Richard slammed his palm onto the desk.
“She is pregnant!”
Cordelia flinched.
Her father rarely shouted.
Worse, Evan stood near the window saying nothing.
Cordelia turned to him.
“Tell him.”
Evan stared.
“Tell him what?”
“That she caused it.”
“You pushed her.”
Cordelia's mouth opened.
“You're taking her side?”
“I'm taking reality's side.”
Richard paced.
“Moretti canceled tomorrow's meeting.”
Cordelia folded her arms.
“Then reschedule.”
Richard stopped.
“You still don't understand.”
“Understand what?”
“We don't have time to reschedule.”
Her arrogance faltered.
Richard walked closer.
“Bridge financing expires Friday.”
Cordelia stared.
“Our banks won't extend?”
“No.”
“But Moretti's parcel—”
“Was our last option.”
Cordelia sat.
For the first time, the situation reached her.
“If he refuses?”
Richard's voice was quiet.
“We may lose the company.”
She looked toward Evan.
“And you're blaming me?”
“No,” Evan said. “The company was already in trouble.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you treated a woman like she wasn't human.”
Cordelia's face hardened.
“Oh, spare me.”
Evan took off his engagement ring.
Actually, it was the matching band he'd started wearing after their engagement photos.
He placed it on the table.
Cordelia stared.
“What are you doing?”
“I've spent two years telling myself your cruelty was confidence.”
“Evan.”
“I was wrong.”
“You can't leave me because of a waitress.”
There it was again.
That word.
Waitress.
As if employment determined worth.
Evan shook his head.
“I'm leaving because you're still calling her that.”
He walked out.
Cordelia didn't cry.
Not yet.
She stared at the door.
Then at her father.
Richard looked suddenly old.
“What happens now?”
He turned toward the city lights.
“Now we hope the woman you humiliated is kinder than you were.”
---
Back at the hospital, Della woke around three in the morning.
Luca was still there.
He sat in the corner reading emails from his phone.
“You stayed?”
He looked up.
“Yes.”
“You have a hotel to run.”
“I have people.”
“A company?”
“Also people.”
Della smiled faintly.
Then winced while shifting.
Luca immediately stood.
“Pain?”
“My hip.”
He reached toward the call button.
“Don't.”
“The doctor said—”
“It's bruised.”
He stopped.
Della watched him.
“You don't like being told no.”
“I tolerate it poorly.”
“I noticed.”
A pause.
Then Della asked, “Why were you shot?”
Luca's expression changed.
The question had been waiting between them.
“Wrong family. Wrong business. Wrong decisions.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.”
“Are you in the mafia?”
Luca looked almost amused.
“You really ask direct questions.”
“I once put you in a taxi while you were bleeding through my scarf. I think I've earned one.”
He sat again.
“My family has a history.”
“That means yes.”
“That means my life isn't simple.”
Della looked at him for a long moment.
“I don't want trouble.”
“I know.”
“I have a child coming.”
“I know.”
“I can't be part of whatever your world is.”
Luca nodded.
“I know.”
She seemed surprised.
“You aren't going to argue?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because helping me eight years ago didn't create a debt you owe me. It created one I owe you.”
Della's eyes softened.
“I never wanted repayment.”
“That doesn't eliminate gratitude.”
“What exactly are you planning?”
Luca looked toward the hospital window.
“First, making sure Cordelia cannot pressure the hotel into firing you.”
Della's expression changed.
“My job.”
“You still have it.”
“You're sure?”
“I own the hotel.”
“Yes, I gathered that.”
“And second…”
He paused.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Della narrowed her eyes.
“What were you about to say?”
“That you shouldn't be working twelve-hour banquet shifts while pregnant.”
Her defenses rose instantly.
“I need the money.”
“I didn't say you didn't.”
“You were going to offer money.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Della—”
“No.”
He stopped.
There it was.
The same stubbornness he remembered from Fulton Street.
A twenty-two-year-old woman standing in front of a taxi, refusing to move.
“You haven't changed much.”
“You don't know me.”
“I know you threaten taxi drivers.”
She stared.
“You remember that?”
“Every word.”
Della laughed despite herself.
Then something inside her shifted.
She looked down at her belly.
“You feel that?”
Luca froze.
Della hesitated.
Then, almost shyly, she reached for his hand.
“Here.”
She placed his palm against the side of her stomach.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then a tiny kick pressed beneath his hand.
Luca stopped breathing.
His entire expression softened.
Della watched him.
The feared man from newspaper photographs suddenly looked almost defenseless.
“There,” she whispered.
The baby kicked again.
Luca smiled.
And neither of them knew that someone standing at the far end of the hospital corridor had taken a photograph.
By sunrise, that picture would be online.
By breakfast, reporters would know Della Marsh's name.
May you like
And by noon, the quiet life she had fought desperately to protect would be gone.
---
