Bound by obsession

Chicago – 10 Years Ago The garden was too big for hide and seek. Or maybe Emily was just too small. The Moretti estate stretched like something from a storybook—sprawling hedges carved into perfect arches, roses the color of blood spilling down trellises, and marble statues of people who looked too serious to be real. But her favorite part had always been the fountain. It stood tall in the center, carved from stone, with water that trickled down into a shallow basin, glistening like diamonds under the sun. She always thought it sounded like the fountain was whispering secrets when no one else was around. She crouched behind it now, knees tucked under her, palms pressed to the cold stone, heart fluttering against her ribs like a trapped bird. “Emily!” Valentino’s voice rang through the garden, firm and clear. “You’re terrible at hiding. I can hear you breathing!” She clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling the giggle that almost gave her away. He always said that—I can hear you breathing—even when he couldn’t. Valentino Moretti was three years older than her, and that made him a very big deal. He was ten. Practically a grown-up in her eyes. He walked like he already knew where the world would bend for him, like he didn’t have to try. She’d seen the way people looked at him. Waiters, drivers, guards—they listened when he spoke. Adults smiled like they were nervous. Even her father, who never bowed his head to anyone, gave Valentino’s father his full respect. But Valentino… Valentino always looked at her like she was someone. Someone he’d chosen. “Okay, last chance,” he called again. “If I find you, you owe me your dessert after dinner. All of it.” Emily frowned. Not my tiramisu. The soft crunch of gravel reached her ears. He was getting closer. She curled tighter into herself, her little blue sundress brushing against the damp grass, her fingers gripping the edge of the stone. The air smelled like roses and rainwater, and the sun kissed her bare shoulders. Her lungs burned with held breath. He passed her. She peeked. Valentino was scanning the hedges, his dark hair tousled from running, shirt untucked like he’d been in a hurry. He looked serious. He always did when he played games. Like it mattered. Like everything mattered. Her chest swelled with something she couldn’t name. He was her best friend. He’d said so yesterday—again—when she spilled juice all over his sketchbook and almost cried. He hadn’t yelled. He just shrugged, wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt, and told her it didn’t matter. He’d draw her again anyway. She was his favorite thing to draw. She hadn’t said it back. Not because she didn’t want to… but because her throat had gone tight and she didn’t know why. Now, watching him pace past her hiding spot, she felt the same tightness again. The same warmth. The same ache. “Emily,” he muttered, more to himself than to her this time. “Where are you, little shadow?” Little shadow. He’d started calling her that last summer, when she followed him everywhere for a week straight. She liked the name. It made her feel special. Like she belonged at his side. Like she was his. He stopped. Her breath hitched. Slowly, he turned and looked right at the fountain. Oh no. “Oh, Emily,” he said with a crooked smirk, eyes gleaming. “You forgot—your dress has a reflection.” She yelped as he dashed around the fountain, snatched her by the waist, and spun her up into the air. “I win,” he said simply, holding her like a prize. Her laugh burst out before she could stop it, and she kicked her feet in protest. “You cheated!” “You hid in my favorite spot,” he said. “That’s not fair either.” She pouted. “Now you get my tiramisu?” “Of course,” he said with a grin that made her stomach twist in a funny way. “Unless you want to trade it… for something else.” Emily tilted her head. “Like what?” He hesitated. Just for a second. Then he said, quietly, “A promise.” She blinked. “What kind of promise?” “That you’ll never hide from me again.” Her heart skipped. He looked so serious. Too serious for a game. “I… I don’t hide from you,” she mumbled. “You did today.” “It was the game,” she whispered. He nodded, slowly. “Still. I don’t like not knowing where you are.” There was a strange weight in his voice. Like he meant more than he was saying. Like something dark crept behind his words. Emily, seven years old and still figuring out the world, didn’t understand it. But some part of her—the part that knew when to keep quiet around the men in suits, when to duck behind her father’s leg during meetings, when to stop asking questions—felt it. And it stayed with her. Even after they both smiled again. Even after he piggybacked her back to the house. Even after he gave her back the tiramisu at dinner. That night, as she lay in bed in the Moretti mansion’s guest room, curled beneath soft covers, she thought about Valentino’s words. Don’t hide from me. And for the first time in her young life, she wondered what it meant to belong to someone. --- Ten Years Later But that’s the thing about childhood promises. You don’t realize which ones grow teeth. Now, at seventeen, Emily stood in the same garden—but it didn’t feel the same. The hedges were taller. The statues colder. The whispering fountain now sat silent under a winter sky. She hadn't played hide and seek in years. And Valentino Moretti wasn’t looking for her anymore. He was gone. Had been for four years. Sent to Italy just after graduating high school. No one had told her why. No one ever told her anything. One day he was there—her shadow, her sun—and the next, he wasn’t. No goodbye. No letter. Just silence. She’d cried, of course. Screamed, once. Then she got angry. Then she got quiet. Because in the mafia, silence was safety. Questions got you hurt. And being a daughter—even one born into loyalty—meant learning when to shut up and smile. Still, she’d waited. Every year, every holiday, she checked the door. Every birthday, she wished for him. And now, four years later… Valentino was back. Except he wasn’t him anymore. The boy who once lifted her into the air like she was light as air? Gone. Replaced by someone taller, broader, sharper. His eyes no longer gleamed when he looked at her. They burned. He didn’t talk much. Didn’t smile, not really. And yet, he watched. Always. From across the room. From the hall. From the car. From the penthouse they now shared—because her father insisted it was safer that way. Because they were from the same organization. Because Valentino was next in line. Because fate was cruel. Sometimes, when she passed his bedroom door and caught his scent—musk, smoke, leather—her knees would weaken. And sometimes, she swore she could feel him behind her before she turned. She hated that part. The knowing. The truth. That the boy who once made her laugh now made her tremble. And worse—he knew it. ---