Chapter 3 - The Chicago Trap
Three weeks later, I learned the true meaning of the word escapeless.
What began as a polite dinner in Seoul had snowballed into an intricate, high-stakes web of professional obligation. Dante Moretti had claimed that his European syndicate operations required a high-level multilingual translator who could navigate delicate negotiations in Mandarin, Korean, Italian, and English without leaking secrets to rival syndicates. He offered a retainer so astronomical it could have funded a small hospital. When I tried to refuse, his men simply delivered a stack of legal contracts to my apartment door, accompanied by the subtle, unmistakable reminder that my aging parents' medical debts had magically been paid off in full by an anonymous benefactor.
By the time my private jet touched down at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago, I realized I hadn't been hired—I had been acquired.
The Moretti estate was a sprawling, heavily fortified limestone fortress situated on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by towering iron gates, private security patrols, and manicured gardens that looked like something out of a gothic romance novel.
I was escorted to a luxurious guest suite on the second floor, complete with silk sheets, velvet drapes, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with rare political and philosophical texts in four different languages.
"Mr. Moretti requests your presence in the study," a stiff, elderly butler named Salvatore informed me the morning after my arrival, knocking twice on my door before stepping back.
I walked down the grand marble staircase, my heels clicking softly against the floor. The Moretti mansion was a museum of wealth, power, and hidden violence. Portraits of stern-faced Italian patriarchs lined the corridors, their dark eyes seeming to follow my every move.
When I pushed open the heavy oak door to Dante’s private study, I found him standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out over the snowy Chicago landscape. He held a glass of amber whiskey in one hand, his tailored vest fitting snugly across his broad chest.
"You look troubled, Minseo," Dante said without turning around.
"I am not troubled, Mr. Moretti," I said, stepping into the room and closing the door firmly behind me. "I am wondering how long this charade is going to last. You brought me to Chicago under the guise of translation work, but your security detail has followed me every time I’ve tried to leave this wing. Am I an employee or a prisoner?"
Dante turned slowly, his ice-gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. He set his glass down on the mahogany desk and walked toward me, his movements smooth and predatory.
"You are neither," Dante said softly, stopping just inches away from me. The clean scent of cedar and expensive cologne washed over me. "You are the only person on this continent who can walk into a room of Chinese tech moguls, Italian arms dealers, and Korean shipping magnates, translate every hidden threat, and still look me in the eye without flinching."
"That doesn't give you the right to uproot my life," I whispered, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs.
"I didn't uproot your life, Minseo. I saved it," Dante replied, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a dark, dangerous undertone. "Rival syndicates in Chicago have been watching my movements. The moment they saw me bring a beautiful, brilliant woman out of Seoul who had saved my son's life, you became a target. If you had stayed in Korea, you would already be dead or used as leverage against me."
I stared up at him, my anger momentarily stalling in my throat. "You... you brought me here to protect me?"
"I protect what belongs to me," Dante said, his hand reaching out slowly to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed against my cheek, sending a hot, electric shiver racing down my spine. "And from the moment you held my son's hand in Myeongdong and spoke to him in a language that calmed his soul, you became part of my world."
"I never agreed to be part of your world, Dante," I breathed, using his first name for the very first time.
A dark, possessive spark ignited in his gray eyes. "You don't need to agree, piccola. In my world, what Dante Moretti claims, he keeps."
Before I could process the terrifying, intoxicating weight of his words, the study door burst open, and little Jiànhuī came barreling in, clutching a massive sketchpad.
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"Papa! Minseo! Look! I drew the airplane we took from Seoul!"
Dante broke eye contact with me, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips as he scooped his son up into his arms. But as he looked back at me over Jiànhuī's shoulder, the message in his eyes was crystal clear: I was trapped in the lion's den, and the lion had no intention of ever letting me go.
