Chapter 6 - The Aftermath
The silence that settled over the Moretti estate after the guests departed was not the silence of an empty house; it was the quiet of a fortress after a siege.
By midnight, the white hydrangeas on the terrace were still dripping with dew, but the marquee was dark, the string quartet was gone, and the only sound in the west suite was the soft, rhythmic breathing of Lily asleep in her velvet-draped bed, clutching a stuffed rabbit Vincent had somehow managed to procure from an upscale toy boutique in Manhattan within twenty minutes of the wedding’s cancellation.
I was sitting on the balcony outside my room, wrapped in a heavy wool shawl, watching the lights of the cargo ships move slowly down the dark, oil-slick surface of the Hudson River.
Footsteps echoed softly on the stone pavers behind me.
Heavy. Measured. Distinct.
I didn't turn around. I knew who it was long before the shadow fell across the balcony railing.
“She’s gone,” Vincent said.
His voice was lower now, lacking the public steel he used for boardrooms and syndicates. He was holding two crystal glasses of bourbon, the amber liquid catching the moonlight like liquid fire. He held one out toward me.
I didn't take it at first. “I don't drink, Mr. Moretti.”
“Call me Vincent,” he said, setting the glass down on the stone ledge beside my hand. “And tonight, everyone in this house drinks bourbon, Clara. Even if it’s just to verify the floor is still solid beneath their feet.”
I looked at him sideways. In the moonlight, the scar along his jaw looked less harsh, softened by the shadows of the Virginia creepers climbing the terrace wall.
“You knew,” I said quietly.
“Knew what?”
“About Cassandra. About the leaks. You knew before today.”
Vincent took a slow sip of his drink, his dark eyes fixed out toward the river where a container ship was sliding past the New Jersey shoreline.
“I knew there was a leak,” he corrected softly. “I didn't have the bank records until Thursday night. Norah’s phone gave up the rest of it when Rossi’s technicians cracked the cloud backup.”
“And you still let her walk down the aisle—almost—just to trap her?”
“In my line of work,” Vincent said, his voice level and entirely devoid of remorse, “you don't swat a mosquito when it lands on your arm. You wait until it settles on the glass, and then you wipe it out so it never bites again.”
He turned his head, his gaze shifting down to meet mine. The intensity in his dark eyes wasn't terrifying anymore; it was something heavier, something steady and anchored that made my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
“You saved my son, Clara,” Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave. “And then you sat at my table when eighty vultures were waiting for me to bleed.”
“I didn't have a choice,” I whispered. “You told me to sit.”
“I give a thousand orders a week,” Vincent murmured, taking a slow step closer until the scent of cedar and bourbon surrounded me entirely. “Most people find a way to disobey them, or fail them, or turn them into excuses. You just... sat there with your daughter, holding a glass of water like you owned the room.”
“I was terrified.”
“I know,” he said, a faint, rare ghost of a real smile touching the corner of his mouth. “Your hands were shaking so hard I thought you were going to drop the silverware.”
He reached out.
His large, scarred hand didn't grab my arm or issue a command. His fingers brushed lightly against my cheek—right over the fading bruise where I had hit the kitchen floor less than forty-eight hours ago.
His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man who controlled the Hudson docks.
“Does it still hurt?” he asked.
“No,” I lied, my breath catching in my throat.
May you like
Vincent didn't pull his hand away. He leaned down slightly, his dark eyes searching my face with an unhurried, devastating thoroughness that made the river, the estate, and the entire city of New York fade into the background.
“Good,” he whispered. “Because you’re never scrubbing another floor in this house as long as you live.”
