Chapter 5 - Midnight Shadows
The guest suite assigned to me on the third floor of the Moretti estate was larger than my entire former apartment in Queens.
A massive four-poster mahogany bed draped in rich velvet sheets sat opposite a roaring private fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking panoramic view of the manicured gardens bathed in silver moonlight. Yet, despite the unmatched luxury, I couldn't sleep.
I sat curled up in the corner of a plush window seat, staring out into the dark treeline surrounding the perimeter fence.
My mind raced a million miles an hour.
Tonight had been a surreal fever dream. I had gone from running for my life in a greasy Brooklyn restaurant to being installed in a fortified mafia stronghold under the personal protection of Michael Moretti—all because his six-year-old son had asked me to marry him.
Marriage.
Even if it was just a kid’s innocent game to ward off imaginary witches, the way Michael had looked at me downstairs, the way he had drawn a hard, impenetrable line in the sand against Regina and Tony… it hadn't felt like a game at all.
A soft, hesitant knock sounded at my heavy oak bedroom door.
I froze, slipping my feet off the window seat and pulling a heavy wool throw blanket tighter around my shoulders.
“Come in,” I whispered.
The door creaked open a few inches, and a small, pajama-clad figure slipped into the room. Zach rubbed his sleepy eyes with one hand, dragging a stuffed bear with the other.
“Aurora?” he mumbled softly, his voice thick with sleep.
My heart melted instantly. I crossed the room in three strides and scooped him up into my arms, carrying him over to the massive bed and pulling back the heavy covers.
“Hey, little guy,” I whispered, tucking him in. “What are you doing out of bed? It’s past two in the morning.”
“I had a bad dream,” Zach mumbled, clutching my thumb tightly in his small hand. “I dreamed the witch came back and took you away through the window.”
“Hey, look at me,” I said gently, crouching down so my eyes were level with his. “Remember our pinky promise? One hundred percent. Nobody is taking me anywhere.”
Zach let out a tiny, contented sigh, his heavy eyelids fluttering shut. “Good. Because Dad said an Ashford never breaks a promise.”
He was asleep before I could figure out what he meant by calling me an Ashford—my father had never mentioned any prestigious family lineage, only leaving behind a mountain of medical debt and a broken life.
As I gently kissed Zach’s forehead and stood up to walk back to the window, a quiet shadow caught my eye in the hallway outside my cracked door.
I stepped softly across the carpet and peered out into the dim corridor.
Michael stood just outside my door, leaning against the opposing wall. He had removed his suit jacket, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, corded forearms. He held a glass of bourbon in one hand, but he wasn't drinking it. He was just standing there, keeping watch in the dead of night.
He turned his head slowly, meeting my eyes through the narrow gap in the door.
“Is he asleep?” Michael asked quietly.
“Out cold,” I whispered, pushing the door open a little wider. “Thank you. For letting him stay here. For... everything tonight.”
Michael pushed off the wall and took a step closer, the dim hallway light casting sharp highlights across his rugged features.
“You don't need to thank me, Aurora,” he said, his voice dropping into a smooth, resonant baritone that sent a sudden shiver down my spine. “Like I said, we protect what’s ours.”
He paused, his slate-gray eyes searching my face with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe.
“Though,” Michael added, a faint, dangerous smile playing on his lips, “we should probably talk about the timeline for that wedding. My son takes his engagements very seriously, and I’d hate to disappoint him.”
Before I could find my voice to answer, a sharp, piercing sound shattered the quiet stillness of the mansion.
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Downstairs, the estate’s main security alarm shrieked to life, flashing a blinding, urgent red across the grand hallway walls.
Michael’s expression shifted in a fraction of a second from warm amusement to cold, lethal steel. He stepped past me into the room, drawing a heavy, suppressed automatic pistol from his shoulder holster with fluid, terrifying precision.
