Chapter 2 - Sanctuary at the Estate
The black Maybach glided through the iron gates of the Moretti estate like a ghost cutting through the midnight fog.
Harper pressed her forehead against the tinted glass, staring in disbelief at the sprawling stone manor perched on the forested bluffs overlooking the dark Hudson River. High stone walls topped with discreet razor wire circled the grounds, and every fifty yards, armed guards in dark tactical coats paced under the amber surveillance lamps.
This was not just a home; it was a fortress.
“Drink this,” Luca’s voice broke the silence inside the car.
He handed her a porcelain flask. She unscrewed the cap cautiously. The sweet, sharp scent of honey and warm herbal tea hit her nose. Not poison. Not alcohol. Just warmth.
“Thank you,” she whispered, taking a cautious sip. The warmth bloomed down her throat, settling the violent tremor in her gut.
The car stopped beneath a stone portico. Paulie opened the door, and Luca stepped out into the freezing night, then turned and offered his hand to assist her. This time, Harper didn't hesitate. Her body was crashing from the adrenaline; her muscles felt like wet paper, her bruised ribs throbbing with every breath.
As her heel hit the stone, her right knee buckled.
Before she could hit the ground, Luca caught her. His arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her effortlessly against his chest. Harper gasped, her instincts screaming at the sudden contact, but there was no cruelty in his hold—only unyielding steel.
“Easy,” he said, his deep voice vibrating through his chest against her cheek. “I’ve got you.”
“I can walk,” she muttered, though her vision was swimming with black spots.
“You can barely breathe,” he countered flatly, carrying her up the grand marble steps as the massive double doors swung open before them.
An older woman with silver hair pulled into a severe bun stood in the foyer, wearing a crisp black dress beneath an apron. Beside her stood a slender woman in her late thirties with a medical bag slung over her shoulder.
“Rosa,” Luca commanded as he crossed the threshold into a cathedral-like foyer paved in white marble. “Prepare the east wing suite. Fireplace lit, fresh linens, hot broth.”
“Right away, Signor Luca,” the housekeeper replied without a single glance of judgment, turning briskly down the grand corridor.
Luca set Harper gently onto a velvet settee near the roaring fireplace in the library. The warmth of the fire hit her like a physical blow, thawing the numbness in her extremities.
The woman with the medical bag knelt in front of her. “Harper? I’m Dr. Elena Walsh. I work exclusively for Luca. I’m going to examine you, alright? Nobody is going to hurt you here.”
Harper looked past Elena to Luca, who was unbuttoning his overcoat and handing it to a waiting guard. Underneath, his crisp white shirt strained against his broad chest, his holster snug against his ribs.
“Luca,” Harper called out, her voice thin.
He stopped, turning his dark eyes toward her.
“My sister... Chloe. Did Paulie get to her?”
Luca pulled a gold pocket watch from his vest, glanced at it, and slid it back. “Gianni called three minutes ago while we were on the highway. Chloe and your nieces, Lily and Mia, are currently asleep in the safehouse. Two guards are stationed in the hallway, two outside. They are completely off the grid. Vance’s people went to her house forty minutes ago and found an empty nest.”
Relief hit Harper like a tidal wave. The tension that had kept her spine rigid for weeks snapped all at once. Her head lolled back against the velvet cushions, tears leaking silently from the corners of her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Luca looked down at her for a long, silent moment. “Save your thanks, Harper. Keeping them safe is simple logistics. Making Vance pay for the blood on your face... that’s where the bill comes due.”
Elena began gently cleaning the cut on Harper’s lip with antiseptic. Harper winced, gripping the velvet armrest.
“Two cracked ribs,” Elena diagnosed after gentle palpation through Harper’s torn blouse. “Severe contusions across the zygomatic arch and mandible. Heavy ligature bruising on the throat. Marcus Vance is a butcher.”
Luca’s jaw ticked. A muscle jumped beneath his cheek.
“Can she travel?” Luca asked.
“Travel?” Elena turned, frowning. “She needs bed rest and painkillers, Luca. She’s suffered acute physical and psychological trauma.”
“She’s not leaving the estate,” Luca clarified smoothly. “Tomorrow night is the St. Jude Foundation Gala at the Metropolitan Hotel. Every councilman, police commissioner, and high-tier syndicate head will be there. Including Marcus Vance.”
Harper sat up abruptly, crying out as the pain in her ribs flared. “You’re going to see him?”
“No,” Luca said, his eyes darkening into pitch-black voids of impending retribution. “He is going to see me. And he is going to see you.”
Harper stared at him in terror. “Why would you put me in front of him? He wants to kill me!”
Luca walked over to the settee, towering over her. He crouched so that his eyes were level with hers. The raw, magnetic power rolling off him was suffocating, yet inside that terrifying aura, there was a strange, absolute safety.
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“Because fear only lives in the dark, Harper,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a gravelly purr. “Vance thinks you are an insect he can crush under his boot. Tomorrow night, you will wear diamonds, you will wear silk, and you will walk into that ballroom on my arm. You will look him in the eye, and you will watch the exact moment he realizes he dug his own grave.”
***
