Chapter 9 - The Sicilian Villa
The Villa Moretti stood on a limestone cliff overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea, a sprawling crescent of golden stone, terracotta tiles, and terraced lemon groves that caught the afternoon Mediterranean sun like scattered gold coins.
When the black Mercedes convoy swept through the wrought-iron gates, thirty staff members in crisp linen uniforms lined the gravel drive, their heads bowed in synchronized respect.
Leading them was an elderly man with a posture like a general and a silver mustache that looked sculpted from marble—Signor Moretti’s cousin and longtime estate governor, Antonio.
“Welcome home, Mr. Moretti,” Antonio said, stepping forward as Vincent swung open the car door. Then Antonio’s gaze shifted past Vincent’s shoulder, locking onto me as I stepped out with Lily clutching my left hand and Enzo sleeping soundly in a lightweight travel carrier against my chest.
Antonio didn't blink. He didn't look confused. He simply placed his right hand over his heart and bowed deeply.
“Signora Clara. Welcome to the villa. The west apartments have been prepared according to your specifications.”
I felt a sudden, hot flush rise up my neck. Signora. Not the kitchen maid. Not the temporary help.
Vincent didn't correct him. He simply reached out, his hand sliding firmly against the small of my back as he guided me up the wide stone steps toward the arched entryway.
“Antonio doesn't make mistakes with titles,” Vincent murmured low against my ear as the heavy oak doors swung inward. “He knew who was running the New York estate before Hargrove even sent the courier pigeons.”
The west apartment of the Sicilian villa was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling French doors opened directly onto a private stone balcony draped in blooming purple bougainvillea, framing an endless expanse of turquoise sea that blurred into the horizon.
Within an hour, Lily had discovered the villa’s resident tortoise wandering through the lower herb garden, and Enzo had been safely transferred to a carved crib made of olive wood.
I stood on the balcony, letting the warm evening breeze off the Tyrrhenian Sea tangle my hair, listening to the distant, rhythmic crash of waves against the rocks below.
Footsteps sounded on the tile behind me.
“You’re not unpacking,” Vincent’s voice observed from the doorway.
He had changed into a lightweight white linen shirt, the top two buttons open to reveal the dark skin and faint scars along his collarbone. He was holding two glasses of chilled white wine—local Sicilian Grillo that tasted of sun and limestone.
“I was enjoying the silence,” I said, turning to take the glass he offered. “In Brooklyn, silence usually meant the radiator was about to explode or the landlord was outside the door.”
Vincent stopped a foot away from me, the warmth of his body cutting through the evening breeze.
“You’re thousands of miles away from Brooklyn now, Clara,” he said softly.
“I know,” I whispered, looking down at the heavy gold ring on his finger, then up into his dark, unreadable eyes. “Sometimes it feels like I walked through a mirror into someone else’s life.”
“It’s your life now,” Vincent said.
He didn't touch me—not yet. But the air between us felt heavy, electric, charged with the same relentless gravity that had pulled us together across a kitchen floor and through a ballroom full of wolves.
“Vincent,” I began, my voice trembling slightly.
“Yes?”
“Why did you really bring us here?”
He didn't look away. He took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving my face.
“Because in New York, there are too many ghosts,” Vincent said quietly. “Too many ledgers, too many enemies, and too many people who think they know what a Moretti is supposed to look like.”
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He set his glass down on the stone ledge, closed the small distance between us, and placed both hands gently on my shoulders.
“Here, there is only the sea. And you.”
