Chapter 3: Bloodlines
The air outside The Obsidian Club was colder than Evelyn remembered.
It wrapped around her like judgment—sharp, bitter, and biting.
She leaned against her car, hands trembling slightly as she fumbled with her keys. Her body still hummed from the encounter, like her nerves couldn't decide if they were on fire or frozen solid. She hadn't planned on seeing him again. Not ever.
She certainly hadn't planned on still feeling something.
Not after five years.
Not after all the nights she'd stayed awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if she'd made the right choice.
And definitely not after raising two boys who looked more and more like him every damn day.
The click of the ignition broke the silence. She drove in autopilot, navigating the sleeping city with the familiarity of someone who'd spent years hiding within it. Traffic lights blurred past, street signs forgotten, until she reached the small brick house tucked away in the quiet suburb that had become her sanctuary.
Warm light glowed from the upstairs windows.
She exhaled.
They were safe. For now.
Inside, the scent of lavender and vanilla greeted her like a hug. She slipped off her heels, quietly moving through the hallway and peeking into the boys' room.
There they were.
Liam and Leo. Curled together in one bed again, even though they had separate rooms. Liam clutched a stuffed black wolf. Leo's brow was furrowed in sleep, as if he were dreaming too hard again.
Evelyn stood in the doorway, her chest aching in that way only mothers understood. The ache that came from loving something so much it physically hurt.
She moved closer, brushing a dark curl from Leo's cheek. Her gaze lingered on his lashes. So thick. So long. Just like his father's.
She sat beside them, careful not to wake them.
What if Dante finds out?
She'd tried to convince herself for years that he didn't deserve to know. That the child of a man like Dante Moretti would never have a normal life. That love didn't erase the blood he'd spilled. The things he'd done.
But tonight had shaken something loose in her.
The look in his eyes. That brief flicker of pain when she said it meant nothing.
The part of her that wasn't Evelyn-the-mother, but Evelyn-the-woman, had felt it.
She stood and walked to her bedroom, stripping off her dress and letting the silence settle around her. She caught her reflection in the mirror—eyes rimmed with black, lipstick faded, hair wild. But it wasn't the makeup that made her look different.
It was the guilt.
The secrets.
The knowledge that Dante Moretti was close. And if she knew anything about that man, it was that once he sensed the truth… he'd come for it like a wolf in the dark.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her heart kicked.
She answered.
A pause. Then his voice.
> "You lied to me."
Her throat went dry.
> "I haven't told you anything yet."
Another pause.
> "Exactly."
He hung up.
She stared at the screen. One hand clutched the necklace around her throat—the one she never took off.
A simple silver chain.
With two initials hidden behind the pendant.
L & L.
And somewhere across the city, Dante Moretti poured himself a glass of scotch in his penthouse and stared at a photo his men had just taken outside the club.
A blurry image of a woman slipping into a car.
Behind her, tucked in the backseat, two empty booster seats.
His fingers tightened around the glass.
He didn't need confirmation.
Not anymore.