Chapter 5 - The Midnight Warning
Sleep did not come easily.
Despite the plush mattress and the hypnotic dance of the flames in the fireplace, my mind raced through every possible consequence of what had transpired. Every creak of the old estate’s timbers sounded like an intruder. Every gust of wind whipping against the tall terrace doors made my pulse spike.
Around two in the morning, a tiny sound woke me from a restless doze.
*Click.*
The door to the corridor slowly creaked open.
My heart leapt into my throat. Dr. Callahan’s pain medication had worn off slightly, leaving a dull, rhythmic throb in my fingers, but terror instantly flooded my bloodstream. I pushed myself upright against the headboard, pulling the duvet up to my chest with my good left hand.
“Who’s there?” I whispered into the darkness.
A small shadow detached itself from the doorway.
“Emma?”
My breath rushed out in a long, shuddering gasp. “Sofia?”
The little girl was wearing her favorite fleece pajamas—the ones covered in cartoon rabbits—and clutching a worn, one-eared stuffed bear to her chest. Her bare feet padded silently across the thick Persian rug. She looked tiny and fragile in the cavernous room.
“I had a bad dream,” she whispered, stopping by the edge of the high bed, looking up at me with large, sorrowful eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I said softly, shifting carefully so as not to bump my splinted right hand. “Come here.”
She scrambled up onto the mattress with practiced agility, crawling under the heavy blankets and nestling directly into the curve of my left side. She tucked her head beneath my chin, her soft curls smelling of lavender shampoo.
“Is Isabella gone?” Sofia asked into my collarbone.
The question caught me off guard. Children hear everything, even when we think their doors are shut.
“Yes, baby. She’s gone.”
“Is she coming back?”
“No,” I said gently, wrapping my good arm securely around her small shoulders. “She’s not coming back.”
Sofia let out a tiny, shuddering sigh of relief. “Good. She was mean to you. And she told me that when she married Daddy, you would have to go away forever. She said she was going to send me to a school where they don't let you have stuffed animals.”
A hot spike of fury pierced my chest. Isabella hadn't just bullied me; she had been systematically terrorizing this child behind closed doors, using Sofia’s deepest fears of abandonment to control her.
“Nobody is sending you away, Sofia,” I promised, kissing the top of her head. “Your daddy loves you more than anything in the world. And I’m right here.”
“Your hand hurts,” Sofia observed, reaching out to gently touch the edge of the rigid white fiberglass brace wrapping my wrist and fingers.
“Just a little. The doctor fixed it up. It’ll be all better soon.”
Sofia yawned, her eyelids growing heavy now that she was warm and safe. Within minutes, her breathing slowed into the deep, rhythmic pattern of innocent sleep.
I lay there in the dark, watching the ceiling, holding Luca Moretti’s world in my arms.
An hour later, the bedroom door opened again.
This time, there was no hesitation. The shadow that filled the doorway was tall, broad, and imposing. Luca stood in the threshold, wearing dark trousers and a charcoal henley shirt, a glass of water in his hand. He had clearly not slept.
He stopped the moment he saw the bed.
The soft glow of the embers illuminated his face. His expression shifted from razor-sharp alertness to something raw and defenseless as he saw his daughter curled against my side, her small hand clutching the fabric of my pajama top.
He walked over silently, the floorboards making no sound beneath his bare feet. He set the glass of water on the nightstand, then leaned over the bed.
“She slipped out of her room,” Luca whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I checked her bed five minutes ago and almost lost my mind.”
“She had a nightmare,” I whispered back, mindful not to wake her. “She was looking for me.”
Luca stared down at his daughter. Then, slowly, his eyes drifted up to meet mine. In the dim light, the distance between us felt paper-thin.
“She feels safe with you,” Luca said.
“She’s a wonderful little girl, Mr. Moretti.”
“Luca,” he corrected softly. “Please. When you’re holding my child in the middle of the night, you don't call me ‘Mr. Moretti.’”
My pulse skipped a beat. “Luca.”
The name felt dangerous on my tongue. Heavy. Intimate.
He reached out, his large hand brushing Sofia’s hair from her cheek, his knuckles lingering for a fraction of a second against my arm where it held her. A jolt of electricity arced between our skin. Neither of us pulled away.
“My private security intercepted a call Victor Rossi made forty minutes ago,” Luca said, his voice dropping so low it was almost lost in the crackle of the hearth.
The warmth in my chest instantly chilled. “What did he say?”
“He’s calling an emergency meeting of the maritime syndicate tomorrow afternoon. He intends to freeze my container ships out of the northern ports. He’s telling everyone that I broke our contract without just cause, that I assaulted his daughter, and that I’m unstable.”
I gripped the blanket tighter. “Luca... this is because of me. If I hadn't let Isabella provoke me, if I had just stayed out of her way—”
Luca leaned down, his face suddenly only inches from mine. The intensity in his gaze pinned me to the mattress.
“Do not ever say that again,” he growled, the possessive, lethal edge returning to his voice. “Isabella laid hands on you. She threatened my child. Victor Rossi has been stealing from my family for five years, waiting for an excuse to stage a coup. You didn't start this fire, Emma. You just showed me where the rot was.”
“What are you going to do?”
Luca’s lips curved into a cold, terrifying smile that sent shivers straight down my spine.
“Tomorrow evening is the Winter Solstice Gala at the Metropolitan Museum,” Luca said. “The entire city will be there. The mayor. The governors. The heads of every port authority from Boston to Baltimore. Victor expects me to hide in my fortress, lick my wounds, and negotiate a surrender.”
He straightened up, his towering frame exuding an aura of absolute dominance.
May you like
“Instead, I am attending. And I am bringing you with me.”
***
