Chapter 7 - The New Order
Life inside the Moretti estate didn't return to normal; it evolved into something entirely unprecedented.
By the end of the second week, the domestic staff—who had previously treated me with the frozen, aristocratic disdain reserved for temporary help—had quietly begun leaving extra pastries outside the west suite door and whispering “Good morning, Ms. Vance” with a level of genuine respect that suggested word of how Cassandra Vale had been dismantled in the grand ballroom had circulated thoroughly through the servants' quarters.
Lily had completely taken over the north wing.
She had organized Enzo’s rubber ducks by size, taught the nine-year-old heir how to bang a wooden spoon against a silver serving bowl with acceptable rhythmic precision, and informed Vincent during Tuesday breakfast that his black ties were “too boring” and that he needed to wear the blue one with the small silver anchors.
To my absolute shock, Vincent actually wore the blue tie to a meeting with the state transportation commissioner that very afternoon.
“You're spoiling her,” I told him on Thursday evening as we stood together in the nursery doorway, watching Lily attempt to teach Enzo how to crawl across the cream rug while a dozen multi-colored building blocks lay scattered around them like a construction site after an earthquake.
“She keeps me grounded,” Vincent said, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, his dark coat draped over the back of the velvet chair. “Most people in my world either want something from me or are trying to figure out how to put a bullet through my ribs. Your daughter looked at my signet ring and asked if it was made of chocolate.”
I laughed—a real, genuine sound that I hadn't heard myself make since before the rent in Brooklyn doubled.
“She has a very practical view of the world,” I said.
Vincent turned his head, looking down at me with that slow, heavy intensity that always made my heart do a dangerous little double-flip against my ribs.
“And you, Clara? What is your practical view of the world right now?”
I looked at him—at the white scar along his jaw, the gold signet ring catching the evening light, and the way his strong, dangerous hands were currently holding a plastic rattle shaped like a yellow duck without a shred of self-consciousness.
“My practical view,” I said softly, “is that I live in a fortress with a man who breaks shipping empires for breakfast, my daughter has more shoes than a department store, and I haven't had to wash a single floorboard in ten days.”
“Ten days and four hours,” Vincent corrected smoothly.
A small, warm silence settled between us, unbroken by the wind off the Hudson or the distant hum of the security gates.
“Clara,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into that quiet, absolute register that didn't leave room for debate.
“Yes?”
“There’s a summit in Palermo next month. Three weeks. Private jet, full security detail, and a suite overlooking the Mediterranean that doesn't look anything like an attic in Brooklyn.”
He reached out, his warm fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from my forehead, right where the bruise had finally faded into a faint golden shadow.
“Pack your bags,” he said softly. “And tell Lily she’ll need a bigger bucket for the Italian sand.”
May you like
I didn't step back. I didn't reach for an excuse.
For the first time in my life, the floor beneath my feet felt entirely solid, and the man holding my hand wasn't a danger to run away from—he was the only anchor I would ever need.
