Chapter 9 - The Ghost in the Rain
Freedom in Luca Moretti’s world was not a peaceful meadow; it was an armed fortress.
Three days had passed since the meeting at the Union League Club.
Antonio Romano had suffered a massive stroke six hours after returning to his Lake Forest estate and was currently under federal guard in the ICU at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Isabella had fled on a private charter flight to her mother’s relatives in Naples, her accounts seized, her social standing completely obliterated.
The docks had been transferred to my legal name. A team of twenty forensic accountants and corporate lawyers spent seventy-two hours reorganizing the trusts, turning me on paper into one of the wealthiest twenty-four-year-old women in the state of Illinois.
Yet, none of it felt real.
The only thing that felt real was Sofia.
It was late afternoon, and the first light snowfall of the season was beginning to drift down through the gray sky, dusting the grounds of the estate in silent, immaculate white.
I sat on the edge of the terrace with Sofia, a heavy wool blanket wrapped around both of our shoulders. She was sipping hot cocoa from a ceramic mug, her cheeks pink from the brisk wind.
“Are you going to leave now?” she asked suddenly, her small voice cutting through the quiet.
I looked down at her. “Leave? Why would I leave, Sofia?”
“Because the lawyers were here,” she said, staring into her mug. “When my mother died, three men in suits came with briefcases, and then my mother never came home. And then Isabella came with her suitcases.”
My heart broke. I pulled the blanket tighter around her small shoulders, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” I said firmly. “I belong here with you. As long as you want me, I’m not leaving this house.”
“Daddy wants you here too,” Sofia said, looking up with a sly, innocent grin. “He told Franco that if anyone makes you sad again, he will feed them to the fish in the river.”
I couldn't help but laugh—a real, genuine laugh that echoed across the stone terrace.
“He said that, did he?”
“Yes. And Daddy never lies about the fish.”
Footsteps sounded on the stone terrace behind us.
I turned. Luca was walking toward us, his overcoat unbuttoned, carrying a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand. The dark exhaustion that had haunted his eyes for the past week had finally softened, replaced by a quiet, protective peace.
He stopped beside us, looking down at his daughter.
“Sofia, your tutor is waiting in the library for your French lesson.”
Sofia groaned, making a dramatic face. “Can Emma come?”
“Emma has business with me,” Luca said, his voice warm but authoritative. “Go on. Ten minutes early, and Franco will let you feed the koi fish in the indoor pool.”
That was all the incentive she needed. Sofia scrambled out from under the blanket, kissed my cheek with sticky cocoa lips, and bolted through the French doors into the warmth of the house.
Luca watched her disappear inside, a small, rare smile touching his lips. Then he sat down in the wicker armchair beside me, setting his coffee on the small glass table.
“You shouldn't be sitting out in the cold,” he said softly. “Your hand is still healing.”
I looked down at my left arm. The purple fingerprints had faded into faint, yellowish shadows against my skin. They didn't hurt anymore.
“I like the cold,” I said. “It makes everything feel clean.”
Luca turned his head to look at me. The silence between us wasn't tense anymore; it was heavy with words that hadn't been spoken yet.
“The Romano properties have been secured,” Luca said after a moment. “The shipping lines are running under your name. You have enough resources now to buy a home anywhere in the world, Emma. Paris, New York, London. You don't have to live in a house with bullet holes in the conservatory.”
A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the falling snow.
“Are you asking me to leave, Luca?”
Luca reached across the small space between our chairs. His hand closed over mine—not casually, not professionally, but with a deliberate, trembling intensity that shocked me.
His thumb traced the knuckles of my bandaged hand.
“I have spent three years living in a cemetery,” he whispered, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an honesty that stripped away every defense he had ever built. “I thought my only job was to protect Sofia from the monsters outside the gate. I forgot that a home needs light, Emma. I forgot that I needed to breathe.”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping into a rough murmur.
“I don't want you to leave. I want you to stay. Not as an employee. Not as Vincent’s heir.”
My heart stumbled into my throat. “Then as what?”
“As mine,” he said.
The word hung in the freezing air between us like a vow.
Before I could answer, before my trembling lips could find the words to tell him that I had fallen for him the second he stood between me and Isabella’s fury, the heavy wooden terrace door swung open.
Franco appeared in the doorway.
The security chief’s face was completely pale. He was breathing heavily, a sealed courier envelope clutched in his gloved hand.
Luca’s hand tightened around mine for half a second before he pulled back, his business demeanor returning instantly. “Franco? What is it?”
“Sir,” Franco said, his voice shaking in a way I had never heard before. “A courier just delivered this to the front gate. By hand. He was driving an armored vehicle with diplomatic plates.”
Luca stood up, frowning. “From who?”
Franco stepped forward and handed the envelope to Luca.
On the front of the heavy parchment envelope, written in gold ink beneath a wax seal bearing an intricate, foreign crest, was a single name:
*Emma Vance.*
I stood up beside Luca, staring at the envelope. My throat closed up.
“Open it,” Luca commanded softly.
Franco sliced the wax seal with his pocket knife and pulled out a single photograph and a typed letter on official European consulate stationery.
Luca looked at the photograph first.
His breath caught sharply.
He didn't speak. He slowly turned the photograph toward me so I could see it.
It was a black-and-white picture taken twenty years ago in southern France.
In the photograph stood three people.
My mother, Clara Vance, looking young and radiant, holding a baby wrapped in a white blanket.
Beside her stood Vincent Moretti, his arm around her shoulders.
And standing on the other side of my mother, his arm resting familiarly around her waist, was a man with cold, piercing gray eyes and a smile that looked terrifyingly familiar.
May you like
Antonio Romano.
***
