Chapter 3 - THE BROTHER'S FURY
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Michael Moretti stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his black leather coat onto the polished hardwood floor.
He was twenty-eight, leaner than Luca, with the same sharp jawline and stormy eyes that ran in their blood.
"I just passed Vanessa’s town car speeding through the south gate like the hounds of hell were on her bumper," Michael said, breathing heavily.
His eyes swept across the dining table, landing on the empty chairs where the Bellini family had sat minutes ago.
"What the hell happened here?"
Luca didn't look up from his napkin as he unfolded it across his lap.
"Take off your wet coat, Michael, and sit down."
Michael took two strides forward, his gaze locking instantly onto the black serving apron folded neatly on the silver cart.
Then his eyes fell upon our mother’s dark-blue dress and the single piece of antique lace clutched in her hand.
"Why is there a server's apron next to Mama's chair?" Michael’s voice dropped an octave, tight with sudden fury.
Luca picked up his fork and knife, cutting a small piece of roasted chicken for his mother’s plate.
"Vanessa thought Mama would look more natural serving bread to the guests than sitting at the head of the table."
Michael froze mid-step, his leather jacket sliding from his shoulders and falling unceremoniously to the floor.
"She did what?"
"She also took Mama's wedding veil to a tailor and had it butchered so no one would know where it came from," Luca added, his tone dangerously calm.
Michael’s fists clenched so hard that his knuckles turned white through his skin.
"Where is she?" Michael demanded, spinning toward the front foyer.
"I'll drag that spoiled little snake back here by her hair and make her swallow every thread of that lace."
"Michael! Sit down!" Teresa’s voice cracked across the room, carrying the timeless authority of a mother who had raised boys in the slums.
Michael stopped dead in his tracks.
He turned back, his chest heaving, his dark eyes softening instantly as he met her gaze.
"Mama," Michael choked out, crossing the room in three strides and dropping to both knees beside her chair.
"Did she lay a hand on you?"
"No, sweetheart, no," Teresa said gently, cupping his face in her hands.
"Hannah was here. Hannah looked after me."
Michael looked up, his intense gaze shifting to me for the first time that night.
I stepped back slightly, clutching the silver serving tray against my apron.
"You're Hannah, right?" Michael asked, studying my face with piercing scrutiny.
"Yes, sir. Hannah Sullivan."
"You took the tray from my mother’s hands?"
"She was shaking, Mr. Moretti," I answered softly, refusing to look down.
"She’s seventy-eight years old, and she had been on her feet for nearly an hour without a bite to eat."
"Someone had to stop it."
Michael stared at me for a long beat before slowly nodding his head.
"You've got more backbone than every suited coward sitting at this table," Michael stated loud enough for every guest to hear.
The wealthy patrons shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, some pretending to inspect their wine glasses.
"Michael," Luca warned, though there was no real reprimand in his voice.
"Our guests were invited to an engagement party that no longer exists."
Luca stood up, commanding the full attention of the room once again.
"Gentlemen, ladies, the evening is concluded."
"Cars are waiting at the front portico to take you home."
"Whatever business we have pending will be discussed at my downtown office on Monday morning."
"Until then, what happened within these walls remains within these walls."
The guests didn't need to be told twice.
They rose in unison, murmuring polite, hurried apologies before filing quickly toward the coat check in the foyer.
Within ten minutes, the massive dining room was completely empty, save for the three Morettis, myself, and two armed guards at the doors.
The sudden stillness felt heavy, saturated with decades of unspoken grief and hardened survival.
Luca walked over to the sideboard and poured three glasses of amber whiskey, handing one to Michael and keeping one for himself.
He carried the third glass to the kitchen threshold and handed it to Mrs. Gable, the head cook, who had been peering nervously through the swinging door.
"Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Gable," Luca said quietly.
"Go home to your family. Hannah will help us close up."
"Thank you, Mr. Luca," the older cook whispered, slipping out the back pantry door.
When Luca returned to the table, he didn't sit in his imposing armchair at the head of the table.
Instead, he pulled a wooden chair directly opposite Teresa and sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees.
"Michael," Luca said, taking a slow sip from his glass.
"Salvatore Bellini has four cargo shipments clearing customs in Newark tomorrow morning."
Michael looked up, a cruel smirk touching the corner of his lips.
"You want them seized?"
"I want them redirected," Luca corrected evenly.
"Salvatore used my capital to finance that shipment."
"If he thinks he can bring his arrogant daughter into my home to degrade our mother, he can learn what poverty tastes like again."
"Consider it done," Michael said, standing up and pulling out his encrypted phone.
"I'll have our docks in Jersey lock down the containers before dawn."
Teresa watched her sons with a deep, sorrowful look in her eyes.
"Luca... Michael... please," she pleaded softly.
"Don't start another war over an old woman’s hurt feelings."
"I'm fine. Really, I am."
Luca reached across the table and covered her small hand with his own.
"This isn't just about hurt feelings, Mama."
"A man who lets his mother be humiliated under his own roof cannot protect an empire."
"If I let Vanessa treat you like a servant today, tomorrow my enemies would think they could spit on our name without consequence."
"Besides," Luca’s lips curved into a faint, bitter smile, "she was never going to love this family."
"She loved the marble pillars and the black town cars."
"She hated the dirt we came from."
Michael pocketed his phone and turned to Teresa, pressing a warm kiss against the top of her silver hair.
"I'm staying here tonight, Mama. You're not sleeping alone in the west wing."
"You don't have to baby me, Michael," she scolded gently, though she leaned into his touch.
"Hannah," Luca called out, turning his attention back to me.
I had been quietly clearing the remaining wine glasses onto my tray, trying to remain unobtrusive.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti?"
"Put the tray down."
I paused, carefully placing the silver tray on the sideboard before clasping my hands in front of my apron.
Luca stood up and walked toward me, stopping just two paces away.
"You stood up to Vanessa when she threatened to fire you."
"Yes, sir."
"You knew she had the power to throw you out into the street without a recommendation."
"I did, sir."
"Why did you do it?"
I looked directly into his dark, piercing eyes, refusing to let my voice waiver.
"Because my father spent thirty years working in a foundry to put shoes on my feet."
"He broke his back so I could have an education, and right now he’s lying in a hospital bed waiting for his hip to heal."
"If someone made him wear an apron and wait on strangers while he starved, I would have torn that room apart."
"Your mother deserved respect, Mr. Moretti. It didn't matter who was signing my paycheck."
A dead silence followed my words.
Michael let out a low whistle from the table, shaking his head with an amused grin.
Luca didn't smile, but something shifted behind the cold, calculating darkness of his eyes.
"What is your father’s name, Hannah?"
"Thomas Sullivan, sir."
"And which hospital is he at?"
"Mercy General, on the South Side."
Luca nodded once, turning back toward his brother.
"Michael, call Dr. Vance. Have Thomas Sullivan moved to a private suite on the fourth floor tonight."
My breath hitched in my throat, my eyes flying wide.
"Mr. Moretti, no, please—I can't afford that!"
Luca held up a single hand to cut me off.
"You didn't ask for it, Hannah. I am giving it to you."
"No one who defends Teresa Moretti worries about medical bills in this city."
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, a heavy weight lifting off my chest that had been crushing me for months.
"Thank you, sir... thank you so much."
"Don't thank me yet," Luca said, his voice dropping into a deeper, business-like tone.
"Because starting tomorrow morning, your duties in this house are changing."
I blinked in confusion.
"Changing, sir?"
"You are no longer a junior maid," Luca stated firmly.
"You are my mother’s personal companion and head of her household."
May you like
"You answer only to her, and to me."
Before I could process what he was saying, the heavy front doors rattled with a violent, frantic banging from the foyer outside.
