Chapter 7 - The Bloodline
By three o'clock in the morning, the mansion on Lake Shore Drive was quiet.
The rain had finally washed the autumn leaves from the stone pillars at the gate, leaving the driveway glistening like black glass under the security floodlights. Margaret Bellini was fast asleep in the master guest suite on the second floor, tucked beneath a down duvet with Mrs. Carter watching over her like a guardian angel.
In the private ground-floor library, the fire in the limestone hearth crackled softly, throwing dancing orange shadows across the floor-to-ceiling shelves of antique leather volumes.
I sat in a deep velvet armchair near the fire, holding a mug of peppermint tea between my palms.
The midnight-blue dress was draped over the back of the settee; I had changed into an oversized cream wool sweater and dark trousers Mrs. Carter had left for me. My leg was elevated on a cushioned ottoman, the white bandage fresh and clean, the dull ache in my shin finally receding into a manageable throb.
The heavy oak door swung open with a quiet click.
Luca walked in.
He had stripped off his tuxedo jacket, wearing a black Henley shirt with the top two buttons undone, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looked exhausted—the kind of soul-deep weariness that comes from carrying an empire on your shoulders while the ground beneath your feet shifts—yet his posture remained proud, magnetic, and undeniably dangerous.
In his hand, he carried a heavy, flat wooden box bound in tarnished brass straps.
He walked across the Persian rug, his long strides silent, and set the box on the low coffee table between our chairs.
He didn't sit down immediately. He stood looking down at me, his gray eyes sweeping over my face, lingering on the small, pale scar on my lower lip, before dropping to my bandaged leg.
“How is the pain, Lucy?” he asked softly.
“It barely hurts, Mr. Moretti,” I smiled, my voice carrying the warmth of the hearth. “Dr. Harris gave me an anti-inflammatory before he left. He said the stitches can come out next Friday.”
Luca frowned slightly, a dark shadow crossing his brow. “I told you two days ago, Lucy. Stop calling me Mr. Moretti.”
My throat tightened. I looked down at my tea, feeling a sudden, thrilling heat rise into my cheeks. “It’s hard to break the habit, sir. For nine months, if I forgot to use your title, the house manager would dock fifty dollars from my paycheck.”
“The house manager was fired at six o'clock this evening,” Luca said, pulling the leather armchair opposite me closer and sitting down. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, bringing his face level with mine.
The proximity made the air feel thin. The scent of his skin—cedar, rain, and clean soap—was intoxicating, pulling at my senses with a terrifying, irresistible gravity.
He tapped the wooden box on the table with his forefinger.
“Do you know what this is, Lucy?”
I shook my head. “No, Luca.”
His eyes flared slightly at the sound of his name on my lips, a flash of dark satisfaction dancing behind the gray.
He reached out, his long fingers undoing the tarnished brass latch. The heavy lid swung open on oiled hinges.
Inside, resting on a bed of faded midnight-blue velvet, lay an antique platinum necklace set with a magnificent, five-carat emerald cut sapphire, flanked by two cascading tiers of raw, uncut diamonds that sparkled in the firelight like frozen water.
Beside the necklace lay an old, yellowed envelope bearing the wax seal of the Archdiocese of Chicago, dated October 1998.
My breath caught in my throat. “Luca... that’s... that’s an heirloom. That belongs in a museum vault.”
“It belonged to my mother, Maria,” Luca said quietly, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly baritone that always made my heart race. “My father gave it to her the day I was born. She wore it every Sunday to mass, and she wore it on the day my brother Michael was christened.”
He picked up the yellowed envelope, turning it over in his hands.
“Before she passed away in hospice, my mother gave this box to Samuel Bennett,” Luca continued, his gaze drifting toward the flames. “She told Samuel that she had left a codicil in her private will. She swore that the family necklace was never to be given to a woman chosen for politics, pedigree, or bloodlines.”
He looked back at me, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that took my breath away.
“She wrote: ‘Give this to the woman who bleeds for the stranger at the gate. Because a woman who protects the weak with her bare hands is the only queen who can keep this house from turning into ashes.’”
Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and sudden, blurring the glitter of the sapphires on the velvet.
“Luca, please...” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I'm just a working girl from Bridgeport. My father was a diesel mechanic who died with twelve dollars in his wallet. I don't know how to run a shipping trust. I don't know how to survive in your world.”
Luca rose from his chair.
He didn't hesitate. He crossed the two feet of space between us, dropped to both knees directly on the floor beside my ottoman, and took my trembling hands between his massive, calloused palms.
“You survived twenty-eight wolves at my dinner table with your leg bleeding through your stocking, Lucy,” Luca whispered, his voice rough and thick with a raw, terrifying vulnerability I had never heard in him before. “You looked at Camilla Thorne when she had a hundred million dollars behind her and told her she wasn't fit to touch an old woman's suitcase.”
He brought my hands to his lips, his breath hot against my knuckles as he kissed each finger with a slow, deliberate reverence.
“I have spent thirty-nine years surrounded by people who smile with their teeth and hold knives behind their backs,” Luca murmured, his gray eyes searching mine with a hunger that defied the shadows of his dangerous empire. “You are the only person who has entered this house in ten years who didn't want a single piece of my gold.”
He reached into the wooden box, lifted the heavy platinum sapphire necklace from the velvet, and leaned forward.
His large hands brought the cool metal around the back of my neck. His fingers brushed against the sensitive skin beneath my hair, sending a violent, breathtaking shiver racing straight down my spine as he fastened the intricate clasp.
The heavy sapphire settled into the hollow of my throat, warming instantly against my skin, gleaming like a fallen star against the cream wool of my sweater.
Luca didn't pull away.
His face remained inches from mine, his dark stubble catching the firelight, his breath warm against my lips. His hands came up, his strong fingers gently framing my jawline, tilting my face upward until our eyes were locked in the quiet room.
“Stay with me, Lucy,” Luca breathed, his thumb softly tracing the curve of my bottom lip. “Not as my employee. Not as my director. Stay with me as mine.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged bird. The divide between our worlds was wider than the lake outside, but looking into his eyes, feeling the fierce, unbreakable fortress of his devotion, the fear simply evaporated into the warm air.
“Yes,” I whispered against his skin. “Yes, Luca.”
He leaned in and kissed me.
The kiss was slow, deep, and devastatingly gentle. It tasted of rain, cedar, and an ancient, unbreakable vow that wiped away nine months of fear, poverty, and silence in a single heartbeat. My hands found their way into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, anchoring myself against the magnificent, terrifying reality of the man who held me.
May you like
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, his breathing was ragged, his hands steady against my waist.
“Tomorrow morning,” Luca whispered, a rare, boyish smirk touching his lips, “we go to Lincoln Park. I want to meet your mother.”
