Chapter 3 - The Family Table
The Moretti estate in Upper Saddle River hadn't changed in twenty years. It was a fortress of limestone, iron gates, and intimidating silence. When the town car rolled up the circular drive, the sprawling mansion looked less like a home and more like a mausoleum built to house our collective sins.
Inside, the dining room was illuminated by a single, massive crystal chandelier that cast long, predatory shadows across the mahogany table. My father, Marcus Moretti Senior, sat at the head, cutting into a rare steak with methodical precision. He didn't look up when the double doors opened.
"You're late, boy," he said, the rasp in his voice carrying the authority of a man who had ruled the Eastern seaboard's shipping lanes for four decades.
"Cut the theatrics, Vincent," I told the enforcer, waving him off as I unbuttoned my coat and dropped it onto a chair without sitting down. "You had me intercepted. You know why I’m here. Let’s talk about Naomi."
My father paused, lifting his glass of Barolo to his lips. He took a slow sip before setting it down with a sharp clink.
"Naomi Ellis," he murmured, tasting the name as if it were something foul. "A graphic designer from a middle-class family in Ohio. Clean record. Zero connections to our world. Exactly the kind of distraction a man in your position uses to play at being normal."
"She’s not a distraction," I said, stepping closer to the table. "She’s my past. And as of an hour ago, she’s the mother of my child."
The silence that fell over the room was absolute. Even the two guards stationed by the mahogany doors seemed to hold their breath.
My father finally looked up. His eyes, faded with age but still as sharp as broken glass, locked onto mine. There was no surprise in his expression. Only disappointment.
"We knew about the girl three years ago, Adrian," he said calmly.
The room tilted. My chest seized. "You knew?"
"Of course we knew," my father said, leaning back in his leather chair. "A Moretti doesn't sow wild oats in secret. When she disappeared on you, it wasn't because she grew tired of your mood swings. It was because we offered her a choice: take a trust fund and vanish into absolute obscurity, or stay with you and live out the rest of her days looking over her shoulder wondering which of our enemies would use her to get to you."
The air left my lungs. The room seemed to close in, the heavy draperies and dark wood suffocating me.
"You threatened her," I whispered, the words tasting like ash.
"We protected her," my father corrected sharply, slamming his hand on the table. "We protected you. A man with your lineage, your responsibilities, cannot afford attachments. Look at what she did to you tonight—you abandoned a multi-million-dollar merger negotiation in London just because a four-year-old child drew a picture of a taxi."
"She is my daughter," I roared, slamming my fists onto the mahogany, splintering the polished wood beneath my knuckles.
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My father didn't flinch. He stood up, towering over the table despite his advanced years, his face a mask of cold, unyielding resolve.
"And she will remain safe," my father said quietly, "as long as you stay away from her. The moment you try to drag Naomi and that little girl back into our world, you sign their death warrants."
