Chapter 8 - The Palermo Horizon
The private jet climbed above the Atlantic cloud layer like a silver needle piercing gray silk.
Down below, the coastline of New Jersey dissolved into a jagged watercolor wash, and with it went every lingering ghost of the Brooklyn attic, the six-day workweeks, and the bitter taste of copper on my tongue.
Across the aisle, Lily was pressed against the leather window seat, her nose nearly flat against the double-paned glass as she pointed excitedly at the engine cowling.
“Mommy, look! The clouds look like whipped cream!”
“Don't touch the glass, sweet girl,” I murmured, though my voice lacked any real authority.
I was wearing a soft cashmere cardigan in cream, tailored wool trousers, and shoes that didn't pinch my toes—all selected by Mrs. Hargrove before we left the estate, delivered with a polite nod that felt less like a servant’s duty and more like a silent alliance.
Vincent sat across from me, a leather-bound folio of shipping audits open on his knee, though his dark, heavy-lidded eyes kept drifting away from the columns of figures and toward Lily.
He didn't look like a syndicalist lord fleeing a domestic scandal; in the soft amber reading light of the cabin, with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms and the gold signet ring catching the glow, he looked dangerously calm.
“She’s going to dismantle the cockpit by the time we hit the Azores,” Vincent observed, a faint, dry amusement in his deep voice.
“She has a very active engineering mind,” I replied, turning a page of my own book—a hardbound volume on Mediterranean botany Hargrove had casually slipped into my traveling case. “Give her twenty years and she’ll either run an airline or blow one up.”
Vincent closed the folio with a soft snap. He set it on the mahogany tray table between us, leaning back against the charcoal leather upholstery.
“Let’s aim for the airline,” he said softly. “The world has enough explosions.”
He reached across the narrow gap, his large, scarred fingers brushing against my wrist as he adjusted the reading lamp above my seat. The contact was casual, yet the heat of it lingered on my skin long after his hand withdrew.
“You haven’t opened your dossier,” Vincent noted, nodding toward a slim leather folder stamped with the Moretti crest resting beside my elbow.
“My dossier?” I blinked. “I thought that was for your import manifests.”
“It’s for the Palermo residence,” Vincent said, his eyes locking onto mine with that unhurried, devastating intensity. “And for the estate manager who will be greeting us at the villa. I wanted you to review the staff roster before we land. If there’s anyone whose face you don’t like, we can replace them before breakfast.”
May you like
I stared at him, my breath catching slightly. “Vincent, we’re going to Sicily for three weeks. I’m Enzo’s nanny, not the regional director of logistics.”
“You’re whatever you choose to be in this house, Clara,” he said quietly, his voice dropping an octave until it filled the private space between us like warm honey. “Get used to the title.”
