Chapter 5 - The Fortress
The third-floor guest suite was larger than any apartment I had ever lived in.
A king-sized bed dominated the center of the room, piled high with plush down comforters and Egyptian cotton sheets. French doors opened onto a private stone balcony overlooking the misty gardens below. A roaring fire crackled in the limestone fireplace, casting flickering amber light across polished hardwood floors.
It was a room built for nobility. I felt like an intruder just standing in the center of the Persian rug.
A quiet knock at the connecting door broke the silence.
Before I could answer, the door pushed open slightly, and a small figure slipped inside. Sofia was wearing her flannel pajamas, dragging her rabbit by one ear. Her dark eyes were huge in her pale little face.
“Emma?” she whispered.
My heart melted. Despite the throbbing ache in my splinted fingers, I dropped down onto one knee near the edge of the rug. “What are you doing awake, sweet girl?”
Sofia ran across the room and buried her face into my shoulder, wrapping her small arms around my neck. I awkwardly wrapped my uninjured left arm around her back, holding her tight against my chest. She was trembling slightly.
“I heard screaming,” Sofia murmured, her voice muffled against my shirt. “Is Miss Isabella coming back?”
“No,” a deep voice answered from the doorway.
Sofia lifted her head. Luca stood framed in the entrance between the suite and the master corridor. He had discarded his jacket and tie, unbuttoning the collar of his dress shirt. He looked tired, the sharp lines around his mouth softened by the dim firelight.
He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the low armchair near the hearth, extending an arm toward his daughter. Sofia immediately scrambled out of my embrace and into her father’s lap, curling into the crook of his arm like a kitten finding shelter.
“She’s gone, Sofia,” Luca said gently, kissing the top of her dark head. “She won’t be coming back to this house. Ever. You don’t have to be afraid of her anymore.”
Sofia sniffled, looking up at him. “Promise?”
“I promise on my life,” Luca replied, his voice absolute.
Sofia turned her head to look at me, her eyes drifting down to the bulky white splint on my right hand. “Does it hurt a lot, Emma?”
“Only a little bit now,” I lied softly, offering her a reassuring smile. “The doctor gave me special medicine. In a few weeks, it’ll be good as new. We can bake that apple pie together then.”
A tiny smile finally broke across Sofia’s face. “With extra cinnamon?”
“With all the cinnamon you want,” I promised.
Luca watched the exchange in silence. His dark eyes were fixed on my face, watching the way I spoke to his daughter, observing the tenderness that came entirely naturally. There was a look in his eyes that made my pulse stumble—a look that held reverence, hunger, and something painfully vulnerable.
“Sofia,” Luca said softly after a moment. “It is time to sleep. Let Emma rest. Her hand needs healing.”
Sofia nodded obediently. She leaned over, pressed a soft, wet kiss to my uninjured hand, and whispered, “Goodnight, Emma.”
“Goodnight, darling,” I murmured.
Luca carried Sofia back through the connecting door, disappearing down the hall to tuck her into bed. I stood up slowly, the exhaustion of the longest day of my life finally settling into my bones like lead. I walked over to the bed, carefully sliding off my shoes, wondering how my life had completely overturned in the span of twelve hours.
Ten minutes later, the connecting door opened again.
I turned around, startled. Luca stood there in the shadows, leaning against the doorframe with his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. The firelight carved the sharp angles of his cheekbones into high relief.
“She’s asleep,” he said quietly.
“Thank you, Mr. Moretti. For everything you did tonight.”
Luca walked into the room, stopping a few feet from the foot of the bed. He looked around the opulent room, then back at me. “Stop calling me Mr. Moretti. When we are alone in these rooms, my name is Luca.”
A shiver raced down my spine. “Luca,” I whispered, testing the weight of the name on my tongue. It felt dangerous. It felt forbidden.
“You’ve been working here for six months, Emma,” Luca said, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register that seemed to fill every corner of the room. “And in six months, you have brought more warmth into this house than anyone has since my wife died four years ago.”
My breath caught. Luca never spoke of his late wife. The entire estate treated her memory like a sacred, untouchable ghost.
“I didn't realize,” I said softly.
“I did,” Luca stepped closer, his gaze burning into mine with an intensity that made the air between us electric. “I saw the way Sofia ran to you in the afternoons. I tasted the meals you made. I heard you singing in the gardens when you thought no one was listening.”
He stopped inches away from me. I had to tilt my head back to look up into his face.
“Isabella was a contract,” he confessed, his voice barely louder than the crackle of the fireplace. “A business calculation to secure shipping routes and provide a mother figure for Sofia. But she was rotten to the core, and I was too blind to see it until she laid her hands on you.”
“You didn’t know—”
“I should have known,” he cut me off fiercely, reaching out to gently touch the edge of the fiberglass splint wrapping my fingers. His touch was feather-light, filled with a heartbreaking reverence. “A man who cannot protect the people in his house is not a man. I failed you today, Emma. But I will never fail you again.”
The distance between us vanished. His other hand rose, his fingers cupping the nape of my neck, tilting my face upward. For a terrifying, intoxicating second, I thought he was going to kiss me. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs, screaming at me to step backward, to remember my place, to run from the danger of loving a man like Luca Moretti.
Instead, he leaned down and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to my forehead.
His lips were warm against my skin. The scent of him enveloped me completely, making my knees feel dangerously weak.
“Sleep, Emma,” he murmured against my hairline, his voice thick with emotion. “Tomorrow, Vincent Rossi will try to retaliate. The city will be watching us. But behind these gates, you are safe. You have my word.”
May you like
He pulled back slowly, his eyes lingering on my parted lips for one devastating heartbeat before he turned and walked back toward his quarters, leaving me alone in the flickering firelight, shivering from a fire that had nothing to do with the hearth.
***
