Chapter 4 - The Gala and the Governess
Three days later, the tension inside the Moretti mansion had curdled into something suffocating.
Isabella hadn’t spoken a single word to me. Whenever we passed each other in the wide corridors, she looked through me as though I were made of glass, her chin tilted high, her posture radiating venomous superiority. But the hatred in her eyes was palpable—a toxic, festering grudge waiting for the right moment to strike.
Friday arrived, and with it, the annual Moretti Children’s Foundation Autumn Gala.
The mansion was transformed. Florists had filled the foyer with cascades of white orchids and black calla lilies; caterers in tailored uniforms carried trays of crystal champagne flutes; a string quartet played softly beneath the gilded archways of the grand ballroom. Over two hundred of Chicago’s elite—politicians, judges, financiers, and the darker, unmentionable figures of the city’s true power structure—drifted through the halls.
My ankle was still bandaged, but the walking boot had been replaced with a discreet, supportive brace that fit inside a low, comfortable shoe. My job for the night was simple: keep Sofia entertained upstairs in the private family lounge until Luca called for her to make an appearance for the charity photos, then bring her back up for bed.
At seven-thirty, the heavy doors of the family lounge swung open.
I stood up from the sketchpad where Sofia and I were drawing watercolor butterflies.
Isabella walked in, breathtakingly beautiful in a backless, floor-length gown of emerald satin, her diamonds glittering under the chandelier. But she wasn't alone.
Walking beside her was an older, severe-looking woman with gray hair pulled into an impossibly tight chignon, wearing an austere, charcoal-gray uniform. Behind them walked Marco Romano—Isabella’s father.
Marco was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties with slicked-back silver hair, cold predatory eyes, and the unmistakable posture of a patriarch who was accustomed to taking whatever he wanted by force.
“Sofia, darling,” Isabella purred, stepping forward with an artificial smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Look who’s here. Grandfather Marco came to say hello.”
Sofia instantly shrank against my hip, her fingers clutching the fabric of my simple black dress. “Hi, Mr. Romano,” she whispered cautiously.
Marco didn’t look at the child. His cold, assessing gaze drifted past Sofia and landed entirely on me.
“So this is the girl,” Marco said, his voice gravelly and dismissive.
“Yes, Father,” Isabella said, casting a triumphant glance in my direction. “This is Emma. The girl who seems to have so much trouble walking down stairs without causing an international incident.”
My spine stiffened. “Good evening, Mr. Romano.”
Marco didn’t acknowledge my greeting. He turned to the severe woman beside him. “Madame Laurent has arrived directly from the Saint-Claire Academy in Geneva. She has educated the children of European nobility and diplomats for thirty years.”
Isabella smiled, a sharp, predatory grin. “Luca is far too busy running an empire to realize that Sofia’s education has been severely neglected. A common nanny might be fine for a toddler, but an heiress to the Moretti name requires structure, etiquette, and proper breeding.”
Madame Laurent stepped forward, her icy blue eyes raking over Sofia with clinical disapproval. “Starting tomorrow morning, the child will follow a six-hour instructional schedule. No finger painting. No fairy tales. English, French, and classical piano.”
Sofia’s eyes welled with tears. Her grip on my dress tightened so hard that the seams strained. “No! I don’t want her! I want Emma!”
“Quiet, child,” Madame Laurent snapped sharply, reaching out to take Sofia by the wrist. “Hysteria is unbecoming.”
“Do not touch her,” I said.
The words came out before I could stop them—firm, clear, and unyielding.
Madame Laurent stopped, looking at me as if an insect had just addressed her.
Marco Romano’s eyes hardened into flint. “Excuse me?”
“I said, do not touch her,” I repeated, stepping directly between Madame Laurent and Sofia, shielding the little girl behind my back. “Sofia is seven years old. She is under my care until her father instructs me otherwise.”
Isabella laughed—a harsh, barking sound. “You arrogant little peasant. You think because Luca indulged your pathetic whining the other night that you have a voice in this house? You are a servant. Pack your things tonight. Madame Laurent is moving into your quarters within the hour.”
“She is doing no such thing.”
The voice came from the doorway, cutting through the tension like a straight razor through silk.
Luca stood framed in the double doors.
He wore a tailored black tuxedo that accentuated the immense width of his shoulders, his cufflinks flashing silver in the light. But it was his face that made the room drop ten degrees. His expression was completely blank—a mask of absolute, chilling authority that had made grown men beg for mercy in boardrooms and back alleys alike.
Marco Romano turned slowly, his face darkening. “Luca. We are handling a family matter.”
Luca stepped into the room, his stride silent and predatory. He didn't look at Marco, nor at Isabella. His eyes moved first to Sofia, who peeked out from behind my skirt with tear-streaked cheeks, then to me.
“Emma,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Did anyone touch my daughter?”
“No, Mr. Moretti,” I answered, my heart pounding against my ribs like a caged bird.
Luca’s gaze finally drifted to Madame Laurent, who was already visibly shrinking back beneath the weight of his stare.
“Who is this woman?” Luca asked.
“She is Sofia’s new governess,” Isabella declared, stepping toward him, her chest heaving with indignation. “Father and I arranged it. Sofia cannot be raised by a common girl from the public school system, Luca! We are doing what is best for your family!”
Luca looked at Isabella. Just looked at her.
The silence stretched for five, ten, fifteen seconds. The cheerful sound of the string quartet drifted up from the ballroom below, an absurd soundtrack to the execution happening in the room.
“There is only one person in this house who decides what is best for my family,” Luca said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “And that person is not you. Nor is it your father.”
Marco Romano took a heavy step forward, his voice dropping into a dangerous rumble. “Be very careful how you speak to my daughter, Moretti. The port concessions come up for renewal before the council on Monday. You need our signatures.”
Luca didn’t flinch. In fact, he took a step closer to Marco, closing the distance until the two powerful men were separated by mere inches.
“I can buy the entire council by midnight, Marco,” Luca whispered, the threat so smooth and effortless it sent a shiver down my spine. “And I can burn every warehouse on your dock before sunrise without losing a single dollar. Do not test my patience using my daughter as leverage.”
Marco’s face turned an ugly, mottled red.
Luca turned his back on the patriarch of the Romano family—the ultimate gesture of disrespect—and looked at Madame Laurent.
“Leave my house,” he said simply. “Now.”
The Swiss governess didn’t wait for a second invitation. She gathered her leather portfolio and practically fled through the double doors.
Luca then looked at Isabella.
“The gala has started,” he said, his tone devoid of all humanity. “You have five minutes to fix your mascara, wipe that look off your face, and join the receiving line downstairs. If you embarrass me in front of the press tonight, we will have a very different conversation.”
Isabella opened her mouth to scream, but Marco grabbed her elbow, his grip bruising.
“Not here, Isabella,” Marco hissed, pulling her toward the hall. He looked over his shoulder at Luca, his dark eyes burning with murderous intent. “This isn't over, Moretti.”
“It’s over when I say it is,” Luca replied.
The doors clicked shut behind them.
The room went dead silent. Sofia burst into tears, wrapping both arms around my waist and burying her face in my hip. I sank carefully onto the edge of the sofa, wincing slightly as my ankle took the weight, and pulled the trembling little girl into my lap.
“Shh, sweetheart,” I whispered, smoothing her dark curls. “You're okay. Nobody is taking you away. I'm right here.”
Luca stood in the center of the room, watching us.
The terrifying mob boss, the ruthless billionaire, the man who had just threatened to burn down an entire shipping empire—vanished. In his place stood a father whose eyes were filled with an ache so profound, so devastatingly lonely, that it nearly broke my heart.
He walked over to the sofa and knelt down beside us.
He reached out, his large, calloused hand resting gently against the back of Sofia’s head, before his knuckles lightly brushed against my cheek as he wiped away a stray tear I hadn't realized had fallen.
“Thank you,” Luca said softly.
His dark eyes searched mine, standing inches apart, the air between us crackling with something far deeper, far more dangerous than fear.
“For what, Mr. Moretti?”
May you like
“For fighting for her,” he murmured. “When everyone else in this world is only looking for a way to use her.”
***
