Chapter 3 - The Moretti Estate
The black armored Lincoln Navigator glided through the wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate like a predator entering its private hunting grounds.
For twenty minutes, we had driven away from the neon-lit grit of Brooklyn into an entirely different world. Massive stone walls topped with security cameras and lush, weeping willow trees guarded a sprawling Italianate mansion that looked more like a European embassy than a home.
Inside the back seat, Zach had finally exhausted himself, his head resting heavily against my lap as he slept soundly in his superhero pajamas. I gently stroked his dark hair, my mind spinning so fast I felt like I was trapped on a runaway carousel.
An hour ago, I was hiding behind flour sacks with a frying pan. Now, I was being chauffeured into the inner sanctum of the most dangerous syndicate leader on the East Coast because I had pinky-sworn a six-year-old.
In the front passenger seat, Michael sat in absolute silence, watching the passing security checkpoints with a quiet, hawklike vigilance.
When the car finally rolled to a smooth stop under the grand marble portico, the heavy side door was immediately pulled open by a towering man in a tuxedo.
“Welcome home, boss,” the guard murmured, his eyes flickering briefly to me in the back seat with a look of masked curiosity.
“Salvatore,” Michael said, stepping out into the cool night air and turning back to hold out a hand. Not for his son—for me.
I hesitated for a heartbeat, then slid my hand into his. His palm was warm, calloused, and surprisingly steady. When my boots hit the polished marble of the driveway, I realized my legs were shaking more than I cared to admit.
“He’s out cold,” I whispered, looking down at Zach, who was drooling slightly onto my knee.
“Salvatore will carry him up to the East Wing,” Michael said, his hand lingering on mine for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he let go. He gestured toward the massive mahogany double doors of the mansion. “Come inside, Aurora. You’re safe here. Nobody touches you under this roof.”
Safe.
It was a word I hadn't heard—let alone believed—since my father died two years ago and left me at the mercy of Regina and her endless stream of loan sharks.
As Salvatore carefully lifted Zach from my lap and carried him up the grand double staircase inside the foyer, I stood frozen in the center of the entrance hall. The ceilings rose three stories high, dominated by a breathtaking crystal chandelier that cast rainbow prisms across the white marble floors and priceless oil paintings.
Michael walked over to a polished mahogany bar set against the far wall of the study, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a heavy crystal tumbler.
“Drink this,” he said, walking back and holding it out to me.
“I don’t drink,” I murmured, keeping my hands clasped tightly together to hide their trembling.
“It’s not alcohol. It’s sparkling apple cider,” Michael said, a faint, dry ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Unless you prefer something stronger. Given what you’ve been through tonight, I wouldn't blame you.”
I took the glass, my fingers brushing his. The cold glass was a welcome anchor against my skin. I took a small sip, the sweet, crisp fizz instantly calming the jagged edges of my panic.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as I looked up into his slate-gray eyes. “You didn't have to buy off Tony. You didn't have to bring me here. You could have just let Regina drag me away, or dropped me off at the nearest precinct.”
Michael set his own glass down on the marble mantelpiece above the roaring stone fireplace. He turned around, leaning back against the stone, his broad shoulders filling the space effortlessly.
“My son doesn't ask for much, Aurora,” Michael said quietly. “He’s spent the last six months in and out of children’s hospitals, surrounded by doctors, machines, and cold sterility. Tonight, he ran away because he wanted something real.”
He took a slow step toward me, closing the distance until I could feel the heat radiating off him.
“He picked you,” Michael continued, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register. “And as a general rule, when a Moretti finds something he wants—especially my own flesh and blood—we don’t let anyone else take it.”
May you like
Before I could process the double meaning behind his words, the heavy study doors swung open, and a sharp, elegant woman in a tailored black pantsuit strode into the room, her eyes locked onto mine with undisguised hostility.
---
