Chapter 3 - The Cold Exile
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The hallway leading to the grand staircase was lined with oil paintings of dead Moretti patriarchs staring down with cold judgment.
Ethan clung to my skirt with every step we took, his small sneakers squeaking softly against the polished Italian marble.
From the west wing of the second floor, the muffled sounds of shattering glass and screaming echoed through the corridors.
Vanessa was destroying her bridal suite.
"Miss Nora?" Ethan whispered, pulling gently on my sleeve as we reached the landing.
"Yes, sweetie?" I asked, stopping and kneeling down to match his height.
"Is Daddy going to be sad that there's no wedding?"
My heart ached at the pure innocence in his voice.
Even after everything she had done to him, the boy was worrying about his father's happiness.
"Your daddy loves you more than anything in this entire world, Ethan," I said, brushing a tear from his soft cheek.
"He only wants what is good and safe for you."
"Did I ruin his party?" Ethan asked, his lower lip quivering again.
"No, honey," I insisted firmly, looking directly into his big hazel eyes.
"You were brave tonight."
"You listened to your body and asked questions, just like the doctors taught you."
"Never apologize for protecting yourself."
A faint, tired smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"Okay, Miss Nora."
I led him into his bedroom, a massive suite painted in warm navy blues and filled with model airplanes and towering bookshelves.
I helped him strip out of his stiff navy blazer and starched dress shirt, replacing them with his favorite soft flannel pajamas.
While he brushed his teeth in the adjoining bathroom, I turned down the heavy down comforter and plumped his pillows.
When he climbed into bed, he looked so small against the massive king-sized frame.
"Will you read the chapter about the desert fox again?" he asked timidly, pointing toward a worn hardcover book on his nightstand.
"Of course I will," I replied, pulling an upholstered armchair close to his bedside.
I opened the book and began to read in a low, soothing rhythm.
Ten minutes passed before his breathing slowed, his heavy eyelids fluttering shut as sleep finally claimed him.
Downstairs, the front courtyard erupted in the screech of tires and shouting.
I quietly set the book down and walked over to the tall bay window overlooking the driveway.
The rain had started to fall, slicking the black asphalt below.
A fleet of black Cadillac Escalades stood with their engines idling, headlights cutting through the autumn mist.
Two armed guards were tossing designer Louis Vuitton luggage into the back of a silver Mercedes.
Then Vanessa emerged through the front portico, wrapped in a fur coat, looking like a caged animal.
She was shrieking at Marco, her manicured fingers clawing at the empty air.
Marco did not flinch, simply standing with his arms crossed over his chest like a statue carved of dark stone.
Behind them stood Luca.
He stood in the pouring rain without an umbrella, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets.
Even from the second floor, his commanding presence was chilling.
Vanessa spun around to scream something directly at him, gesturing wildly toward the house and then toward the city skyline.
Luca didn't move an inch.
He said something brief and sharp—words I couldn't hear through the double-paned glass.
Vanessa stopped dead in her tracks.
Her face twisted in utter defeat and blind hatred.
Marco opened the back door of the Mercedes and shoved her inside without ceremony.
The door slammed shut, echoing off the stone walls of the mansion.
The silver car sped down the winding driveway, its red taillights disappearing past the iron security gates into the night.
The Bellini family’s reign inside the Moretti household was officially over.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, leaning my forehead against the cool glass.
My hands were still trembling.
I was twenty-six years old, surviving on coffee and panic, drowning in medical debts that kept me awake until dawn every single night.
My mother had undergone her second spinal surgery three weeks ago, and the rehabilitation clinic had already threatened to discharge her if I missed Monday's payment.
Four thousand two hundred dollars.
That was the exact sum between my mother receiving her physical therapy and being dumped onto the street.
If Vanessa's powerful family decided to retaliate against the staff, I knew I would be the first one crushed beneath their boots.
The floorboard near the bedroom doorway creaked softly.
I whipped my head around, my pulse spiking instantly.
Luca Moretti was standing in the shadows of the doorway.
His suit jacket was gone, his black dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat and soaked through with cold rainwater.
His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing the intricate black ink of mafia tattoos spiraling down to his wrists.
"Is he asleep?" Luca asked, his voice low and raspy.
"Yes, sir," I whispered, stepping away from the window.
"He fell asleep about ten minutes ago."
"He was very brave tonight."
Luca walked slowly toward the bed, his gaze softening into pure warmth as he looked down at his sleeping son.
He reached out with a trembling hand and gently pulled the blanket higher over Ethan's shoulders.
"He shouldn't have to be brave in his own house," Luca said, his voice laced with bitter self-reproach.
"He should have been safe."
He stood there for a long time, watching Ethan breathe.
The man who commanded hundreds of ruthless soldiers looked completely broken in the quiet glow of his son's nightlight.
Finally, he turned toward me, his piercing dark eyes taking in my disheveled apron and pale face.
"Walk with me, Nora," he said.
My heart seized in panic.
"Sir, did I do something wrong?"
May you like
"No," Luca replied, stepping back into the corridor.
"We need to talk about your future in this house."
