Chapter 5 - The Glass Conservatory
The glass roof of the Moretti conservatory was slick with autumn condensation, refracting the amber glow of the city skyline over the Charles River. Inside, the temperature was artificially maintained at a lush seventy-two degrees, filled with exotic ferns and orchids imported from private greenhouses in Florida.
Sloane Barrett stood near the edge of the fountain, her silver silk dress catching the light like liquid moonlight. Her father, Arthur Barrett—a man whose real estate holdings could rival small European nations—was pouring two glasses of vintage champagne at the marble wet bar.
“You’re late, Dominic,” Arthur said without turning around, his voice dry and authoritative. “In our world, punctuality is a sign of respect for the partnership.”
I didn't answer immediately. I stood just inside the arched doorway, my navy suit jacket buttoned, my grandfather’s cuff links catching the amber light. My hand was in my pocket, wrapped around the velvet box containing the six-carat diamond ring.
“Traffic on Back Bay was heavier than expected,” I said evenly, stepping further into the conservatory.
Sloane turned, offering a cool, practiced smile that had been rehearsed in high-society circles since she was a teenager. “It doesn't matter, Dominic. We have all evening. The announcement to the press is scheduled for nine, and my father’s legal team has already finalized the harbor terminal transfer papers for your signature tomorrow morning.”
The harbor terminal transfer papers.
Clara’s warning echoed in my ears with the clarity of a church bell. Every asset, every square foot of waterfront property, every leverage point my family had spent thirty years accumulating was sitting in a folder on Arthur Barrett’s desk, waiting for my signature to seal the merger of two dynasties.
Arthur handed me a glass of champagne. The crystal was ice-cold against my fingers.
“To the future of Boston,” Arthur said, raising his glass toward the dark glass roof where the city lights flickered like distant stars.
Sloane raised hers, stepping closer to my side, her perfume—something expensive and sharp, smelling of white florals and amber—filling my senses.
I looked down at the bubbling golden liquid in my glass. Then I looked at Arthur Barrett’s satisfied, predatory smile—the smile of a man who believed he had just checkmated the most powerful family in New England by trading his daughter like a corporate asset.
They thought they had me cornered. They thought I was a dutiful soldier marching to my own execution for the sake of the ledger.
They didn't know about the four boys waiting in a car three miles away. They didn't know that Clara Vance was back in Boston, armed with a corporate lawyer husband and a truth that could tear the Moretti family apart from the inside out.
I raised my glass, my fingers steady against the stem.
May you like
“To the future,” I said softly.
I touched my glass to Sloane’s, the crisp clink ringing out clearly in the humid air of the conservatory. But as the champagne touched my lips, I didn't reach for the ring box in my pocket. Instead, my thumb brushed against the cold metal edge of my phone, where a draft text message sat unsent to Julian Vance-Vaughn, containing a single address and three words that would start a war neither of our families was prepared to finish.
