Chapter 3 - The Poisoned Ledger
Dawn did not bring light to the Moretti mansion; it brought a heavy, gray freezing fog that rolled off the Long Island Sound, enveloping the manicured grounds in a shroud of white vapor.
By 7:00 AM, Luna was in the small private kitchen of the East Wing.
She had tried to sleep in Luca’s massive master suite—a room of dark velvet, antique firearms, and sweeping terrace views—but the silence had been too terrifying. She had slipped out of bed while Luca was in the shower, putting on clean black trousers and an ivory wool sweater that Maria, the head housekeeper, had quietly left on the dressing table with red, weeping eyes.
Luna stood before the industrial stove, measuring out dark roast Colombian coffee beans and heating a small saucepan of milk.
The rhythm of domestic work was the only thing that kept her mind from unraveling. In her head, she could still hear Francesca Rosetti’s shrill, aristocratic voice echoing through the ballroom: A nameless girl who scrubs your toilets...
The kitchen door swung open with a soft squeak of brass hinges.
Vincent Torino stepped inside. He had removed his tuxedo, wearing a heavy tactical fleece and dark combat trousers, his service sidearm holstered securely beneath his left armpit. He looked as though he had not slept in forty-eight hours; his eyes were bloodshot, his stubble thick and graying.
He stopped three paces from the counter, watching her steam the milk.
"You shouldn't be in here, Miss Reyes," Vincent said, his voice flat, devoid of any title of respect. "Or should I call you Donna Moretti now?"
Luna did not turn around. She poured the steamed milk into the brewed coffee with steady, deliberate movements. "You can call me Luna, Mr. Torino. You have known my name for three years."
Vincent let out a short, humorless grunt that sounded like gravel grinding under a boot. He walked over to the counter, leaning his heavy forearms against the stainless steel prep surface.
"Three years," Vincent mused, tapping his thick fingers against the metal. "Three years of watching you carry laundry baskets and clean the silver. And the whole time, you were whispering in the boy's ear, weren't you? Feeding him fairy tales about love and honor while the rest of us were out on the docks taking bullets to keep this family afloat."
Luna set the ceramic mug down with a firm, sharp click. She turned to face him, crossing her arms, refusing to shrink back beneath his massive, intimidating bulk.
"I never whispered anything to Luca, Mr. Torino," Luna said, her voice cool and steady. "I brought him coffee when he was working eighteen-hour days reviewing accounts that your men were supposed to be managing. I cleaned his wounds when he was ambushed in Queens—an ambush that took place on a route that only three people in this house had access to."
Vincent’s eyes narrowed into dangerous, lethal slits. The air between them dropped several degrees in an instant.
"Are you accusing me of something, little girl?" he murmured, leaning forward until his face was six inches from hers.
"I am an observant woman, Mr. Torino," Luna replied without blinking. "When you scrub floors in a house for three years, you learn that dirt doesn't hide in the middle of the room. It collects in the dark corners where people think no one is looking."
Before Vincent could reply, the heavy service door swung open.
Luca walked into the kitchen, wearing a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, his dark hair damp from the shower, his green eyes instantly locking onto Vincent’s proximity to Luna.
The temperature in the kitchen plummeted to zero.
"Step back from my fiancée, Vincent," Luca said softly.
The command was quiet, yet it carried the concussive force of an artillery shell.
Vincent straightened up immediately, stepping back two paces, his hands rising slightly in a placating gesture, though his jaw remained clenched like a bear trap.
"Just delivering the morning status report, Boss," Vincent muttered. "The perimeter is secure. But Don Salvatore had another coughing fit ten minutes ago. The private physician is upstairs now."
Luca’s expression darkened with immediate concern. He walked to Luna’s side, his large hand instinctively coming to rest on the small of her back, a protective anchor that made her shoulders relax. He took the mug of coffee from the counter, took a slow sip, and handed it back to her.
"Wait in my study, Vincent," Luca commanded without looking at him. "I will be up in five minutes."
Vincent nodded once, turned on his heel, and strode out of the kitchen, his heavy boots echoing down the service corridor.
Once the door clicked shut, Luca turned Luna around to face him. He took her chin in his fingers, tilting her head up, searching her eyes for any trace of fear.
"Did he threaten you?" Luca asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"He is angry, Luca," Luna whispered, resting her hands against the lapels of his charcoal vest. "He thinks I am a weakness. He thinks that because I have no family, no money, and no political power, I will make you soft."
A rare, devastating smile curved Luca’s lips. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent of vanilla and clean soap that always clung to her skin.
"Vincent has spent his whole life believing that power comes from fear, Luna," Luca murmured against her lips. "He doesn't understand that a man who has something pure to fight for... is ten times more dangerous than a man who only fights for money."
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He kissed her—slowly, deeply, with a possessive intensity that made the heavy diamond on her finger pulse with warmth against his shoulder.
"Come," Luca said, breaking the kiss and taking her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. "My father wants to see the ledgers. And today... you are sitting at the head of the table with me."
