Chapter 4 - The Shadow of Protection
Luca Moretti—a man before whom senators, judges, and hardened cartel bosses knelt in terror—was kneeling on the Persian carpet beside my chair.
His eyes were level with mine.
“Are you in severe pain?” he asked, his voice low and remarkably gentle.
“I... it hurts when I try to straighten up, sir,” I whispered, overwhelmed by his proximity. Up close, I could see the faint silver scar running along the edge of his strong jawline, the intense depth of his dark eyes, and the sheer power coiled within his broad frame. “Dr. Harris said it was just a severe sprain.”
“Dr. Harris is an idiot if he thinks an injury like this is ‘just’ anything,” Luca growled softly. He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray strand of brown hair behind my ear.
The touch sent a sudden, dizzying shiver racing down my neck.
“You saved my life today, Claire,” he said, his gaze searching my face. “Do you realize that?”
“I didn't mean to,” I murmured, my cheeks warming. “I just... I didn't want you to be lied to. And I was scared.”
“You were terrified,” Luca corrected gently. “A ruthless imposter threatened your mother’s life, assaulted you, and paraded you in front of twenty-six guests while you were in agony. Yet when I asked you the truth, you didn't back down. You didn't protect her. You trusted me.”
“I’ve worked for you for almost a year, Mr. Moretti,” I said softly. “You’ve always been fair to the staff. You never treated us like dirt, unlike... unlike her.”
A dark, bitter shadow flickered across Luca’s features.
“I was blind,” he said, self-reproach lacing his tone. “I allowed my desire to stabilize the syndicate to blind me to the viper I invited into my bed. If you hadn't spoken up tonight, I would have signed those trust agreements on Saturday. By Sunday morning, I would have had a bullet in the back of my skull, and Marco Vane would have owned this city.”
He stood up smoothly, towering over me once more, but the warmth remained.
“Where is your mother right now, Claire?”
“She’s at our apartment in Pilsen,” I said, panic flaring in my chest. “Mr. Moretti, if Elena’s brother knows where I live—”
“He won’t touch her,” Luca interrupted, his voice ringing with absolute authority.
He reached into his pocket, retrieved his phone, and dialed a number.
“Daniel. Take two armored Suburbans to Claire’s apartment in Pilsen immediately. Bring her mother, her medical equipment, and all essential belongings here to the estate. Do it quietly, but do it now. If anyone is watching the block, neutralize them.”
He hung up before Daniel could even respond.
“Mr. Moretti, you don't have to bring my mother here,” I said, half-rising from the chair before my back protested. “We can go to a hotel, we can—”
“You are not going to a hotel, Claire,” Luca said firmly, stepping closer and placing a gentle, commanding hand on my shoulder to keep me seated. “Marco Vane is a butcher. The moment he realizes Elena has missed her midnight check-in, he will activate his sleeper cells. The safest place on the North Shore is inside these gates.”
He looked down at me, his eyes dark with an emotion I couldn't quite decipher.
“From this moment on, you are under my personal protection. You are no longer on the domestic payroll. You are my guest.”
“Mr. Moretti, I’m just a maid—”
“You are the woman who stood between me and a traitor’s bullet,” he said fiercely. “Never refer to yourself as ‘just’ anything in my presence again.”
A knock sounded on the open study door.
Mrs. Carter stood there, looking pale and shaken by the night’s revelations.
“Sir,” she said quietly. “The master suite in the east wing has been prepared for Miss Claire, as you requested.”
“The master suite?” I gasped, looking at Luca in shock. “Sir, that’s your private floor!”
“The third-floor guest rooms are too far from security,” Luca replied smoothly, offering me his arm. “The east wing has reinforced steel doors and ballistic glass. You will stay there. My personal security detail will be outside the door twenty-four hours a day.”
He extended his hands, effortlessly sliding one behind my shoulders and the other beneath my knees before I could protest.
With a smooth, powerful motion, he lifted me into his arms.
I gasped, instinctively wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders. His chest was as solid as granite beneath his dress shirt. I could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against my ribs, and the clean scent of cedar and expensive tobacco enveloped me completely.
“Mr. Moretti, you shouldn't carry me,” I whispered, my face burning with heat. “Your back—”
“My back is fine, little mouse,” he murmured, a rare, breathtaking smirk gracing his rugged lips. “Hold on to me.”
As he carried me through the grand corridors of the estate, past the priceless oil paintings and towering marble columns, I felt an overwhelming sense of safety I hadn't experienced in years.
He carried me into the expansive east wing suite—a magnificent room with a roaring fireplace, a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton, and panoramic windows overlooking the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan.
He laid me down against the plush pillows with painstaking gentleness, taking off my worn shoes himself and tossing them into the corner.
He pulled the heavy goose-down duvet up to my waist.
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“Rest now, Claire,” he whispered, his fingers lingering on my cheek for a fleeting, electric second. “Tomorrow, we turn the tables on Marco Vane. And no one will ever lay a hand on you again.”
***
