Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary
The penthouse occupied the top three floors of the Romano Tower on Fifth Avenue.
It was less of an apartment and more of a private fortress suspended in the sky—bulletproof panoramic glass overlooking Central Park, polished travertine marble floors warmed by radiant heating, and vaulted ceilings that made the sprawling Manhattan skyline feel like a personal backdrop.
Abigail sat on an enormous, cream-colored cashmere sofa, wrapped in a plush robe that felt softer than anything she had ever touched in her life.
Beside her, Dr. Marcus Vance, a distinguished, silver-haired obstetrician who served as the Romano family’s personal physician, gently pulled his stethoscope away from Abigail’s belly.
“Strong heart rate,” Dr. Vance announced with a warm, reassuring smile. “One hundred and forty-five beats per minute. The baby is vigorous and completely unharmed, Abigail. The amniotic fluid provided full protection during your fall.”
A massive, suffocating weight lifted from Abigail’s chest. A choked sob escaped her throat, and she buried her face in her hands.
“Thank God,” she wept. “Thank God... I was so afraid... when I hit the floor...”
Isabella Romano, who had changed into comfortable silk loungewear, immediately sat beside Abigail, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into a gentle side hug. “I told you, didn't I? Little one is tough. Just like her mother.”
Across the vast living room, standing near a roaring modern fireplace with a glass of neat bourbon in his hand, Matteo Romano watched the scene.
He had removed his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white dress shirt, rolling the sleeves up his muscular, tattooed forearms. Despite his relaxed appearance, his eyes remained laser-focused on Abigail, tracking every breath she took, every wince of pain from her bruised cheek.
Dr. Vance stood, packing his medical instruments into his leather bag. He turned to Matteo and spoke in a professional, lowered tone. “Her cheek has soft-tissue contusions, but no facial fractures. I’ve applied an anti-inflammatory salve safe for pregnancy. However, Matteo... she is severely malnourished for twenty-eight weeks. Mild anemia, elevated cortisol levels, and signs of prolonged physical exhaustion. She shouldn't have been on her feet for ten-hour catering shifts.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened, the bourbon in his glass swirling dangerously. “Understood. What does she need?”
“Bed rest, high-protein nutrition, specialized prenatal supplements, and zero stress,” Dr. Vance replied. “I will return tomorrow morning for a full ultrasound.”
“Thank you, Marcus. Dante will see you down.”
Once the doctor had departed, the penthouse fell into a quiet, peaceful stillness. The only sound was the crackle of the gas fireplace and the muted hum of the city eighty stories below.
Matteo walked over and sat in the heavy leather armchair across from the sofa. He set his bourbon glass down on the marble coffee table, his gaze locking onto Abigail’s tired, swollen face.
“Abigail,” he said, his voice quiet, stripped of the terrifying edge he had used in the ballroom. “Eat something. The kitchen prepared broth and grilled chicken. You need fuel.”
A housekeeper in a quiet gray uniform set a silver tray on the table—a bowl of rich, steaming chicken soup, fresh sourdough bread, and a glass of electrolyte water.
Abigail stared at the food. Her stomach cramped with violent hunger, but she held back, her fingers clutching the cashmere blanket tightly.
“Mr. Romano... I don’t understand,” she said, her voice trembling. “You don’t owe me this. What happened eight years ago... I was a clerk. I did what anyone with rare blood would have done. You don't have to bring me to your home. You don't have to buy my meals.”
Matteo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his dark eyes never leaving hers.
“First of all, nobody else did it,” Matteo said bluntly. “The hospital had dozens of staff members. You were the only one who volunteered to sit in that chair until your own veins collapsed. Second, do not call me Mr. Romano. My name is Matteo.”
He paused, his gaze softening as he looked at her rounded stomach.
“Who is the father, Abigail?” he asked gently. “Where is he? Why were you working catering shifts at seven months pregnant?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and painful.
Isabella gently rubbed Abigail’s arm, offering silent encouragement.
Abigail looked down at the soft cashmere blanket, tears pricking the corners of her eyes once more. “His name was David,” she whispered. “David Vance. No relation to the doctor. We were married three years ago. He was an independent logistics contractor. He ran a small fleet of three delivery trucks.”
Matteo’s eyebrows twitched slightly. *Logistics.*
“What happened to him?” Matteo asked.
“Six months ago... I had just found out I was pregnant,” Abigail said, her voice cracking as the old, agonizing grief surfaced. “David came home one night terrified. He said he had taken a subcontracting job for a major shipping firm—transporting specialized containers out of the Brooklyn terminal. He noticed the cargo manifests didn't match the container seals. He realized they were moving undocumented hazardous chemicals and evading federal port inspections.”
Matteo’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice.
“David tried to back out,” Abigail wept, tears streaming down her bruised cheek. “He told his dispatch manager he wouldn't haul the containers. Three nights later... David was driving home on the BQE. An unmarked semi-truck clipped his rear bumper, sent his truck through the guardrail, and drove off. The police called it a hit-and-run. They never found the truck.”
The living room went dead silent.
“After David died,” Abigail continued, struggling to catch her breath, “his business insurance was voided on a technicality. The leasing company sued his estate for the destroyed truck. The creditors took everything. Our savings, our car, our apartment. I had to move into a basement studio in Queens. The catering company was the only place that would hire me without asking questions about the pregnancy.”
Isabella gasped, tears flooding her eyes as she pulled Abigail against her chest. “Oh, Abigail... God, that’s horrible...”
Matteo remained completely motionless in his chair.
To an outsider, he looked completely calm. But Isabella knew her brother better than anyone on earth. She saw the absolute, apocalyptic darkness that descended over his face.
“Abigail,” Matteo said, his voice dangerously soft. “The shipping firm David subcontracted for. Do you remember the name?”
Abigail sniffled, nodding slowly. “Yes. David kept a copy of the dispatch order in our safety deposit box before he died. He said it was his insurance policy, but I was too terrified to touch it. The company was called *Sinclair Maritime Logistics.*”
The glass of bourbon on the coffee table shattered.
Matteo hadn't thrown it. His hand had simply closed around the crystal with such sudden, crushing force that the thick glass fractured under the pressure.
Bourbon and amber shards spilled onto the marble. Matteo didn't even look at his palm, where a small bead of blood formed along the crease of his skin.
He stood up slowly.
“Matteo,” Isabella whispered, her voice laced with fear—not for herself, but for what she knew her brother was capable of doing.
Matteo pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket, calmly wiped the bourbon and blood from his hand, and tossed the cloth into the wastebasket.
He looked down at Abigail.
The warmth in his eyes was absolute, but behind it burned an inferno that would burn the Sinclair family down to their very ashes.
“Abigail,” Matteo said, his voice a steady, quiet oath. “Eat your dinner. Drink your water. Then Isabella will show you to the master guest suite. Tomorrow, my legal team will retrieve David’s files from that safety deposit box.”
He stepped forward, reached down, and gently, reverently tucked a strand of hair behind Abigail’s unbruised ear. His touch was electric, sending a shiver of warmth through her weary soul.
May you like
“Your husband was murdered,” Matteo whispered. “And the people who killed him are the exact same people who put their hands on you tonight. Sleep peacefully, Abigail. Because tomorrow, justice begins.”
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