Chapter 2 - The Ghost in the Penthouse
The memory of Naomi Ellis was not a ghost that haunted Dominic Moretti; it was a permanent scar etched into the marrow of his bones.
Five years ago, Dominic was twenty-eight—already wearing the heavy, suffocating crown of the Moretti estate following his father’s sudden, violent coronary. He was cynical, guarded, and surrounded by sycophants who loved his bank accounts and feared his temper. Then he took a commercial flight to Atlanta to finalize a timber acquisition, and a twenty-six-year-old brand designer named Naomi crashed into his universe by stealing his armrest.
He could still smell her perfume—something citrusy and sharp that cut through the sterile musk of first-class. She hadn't known who he was. When he introduced himself with a stiff, formal nod, she had simply laughed, a bright, melodic sound that made his chest tighten.
“Dominic,” she had said, rolling the Italian syllables over her tongue as if testing the weight of a stone. “Sounds heavy. Do you carry the weight of the world on those shoulders, Dominic?”
“Sometimes,” he had replied, utterly mesmerized.
They spent the two-hour flight talking about nothing and everything. She told him about her boutique design agency; he lied and told her he worked in corporate acquisitions. She drew little sketches of the clouds in the margins of a marketing proposal; he watched the way the sunlight hit the dark, tumbling curls framing her face. By the time they landed, he had broken his cardinal rule: he gave her his personal phone number.
Within three weeks, she had moved into his Central Park penthouse.
It was a disaster waiting to happen. Dominic’s world was saturated with violence, extortion, and perpetual paranoia. Rivals watched his every move. His phone buzzed at three in the morning with threats that required immediate, brutal resolution. For six months, he tried to live a double life—the ruthless capo of Moretti Holdings by day, and the besotted, domestic partner of a sweet, fiercely independent artist by night.
He remembered the night it all shattered.
He had come home with blood on the cuff of his bespoke wool coat—not his own, but a reminder of a dockside dispute in Brooklyn that had gone sideways. He thought he had cleaned up, thought he had washed away the scent of gunpowder and copper. But Naomi had woken up to get a glass of water. She had walked into his study while he was burning a ledger in the fireplace.
The look in her eyes hadn't been anger. It had been sheer, unadulterated terror.
She hadn't screamed. She hadn't thrown a lamp. She had simply looked at him as if he were a monster wearing a tailored suit.
“Who are you?” she had whispered, backing away toward the hallway.
“Naomi, let me explain—”
“Don't come near me,” she had breathed, her voice shaking. “Stay away from me, Dominic.”
The next morning, she was gone.
Now, staring across the aisle at Julie while four-year-old Lily happily colored a purple-and-green monster in her sketchbook, Dominic felt the floor drop out from under him all over again.
“She was pregnant,” Dominic said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “When she left me... she was carrying my child.”
Julie nodded miserably, wiping a tear from her cheek. “She found out two weeks after she ran. She was terrified, Dominic. You have to understand. We saw a piece on the evening news about a warehouse fire in Queens tied to your family name. A man was beaten to death in an alley three blocks from your office, and your name was whispered by the reporters. Naomi looked at the television, looked at the positive pregnancy test on her bathroom counter, and realized that raising a child in your shadow was a death sentence.”
Dominic’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. “She should have come to me. I would have protected her.”
“From you?” Julie hissed softly, leaning forward so Lily wouldn't hear. “You were the threat, Dominic! Who was she going to call when men came looking for you? Who was going to keep her safe from your enemies? She ran to Atlanta, changed her name on her freelance accounts, moved into a tiny apartment above a bakery, and raised Lily entirely on her own. She didn't take a dime from you. She didn't want your money, your protection, or your blood.”
May you like
“And yet,” Dominic murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he looked down at Lily, who was now holding up a crayon drawing of a man with a crooked tie and stormy gray eyes. “Here she is.”
“Yes,” Julie whispered, closing her eyes in defeat. “Here she is.”
