Chapter 6 - The Uninvited Arrival
The morning of October 12th dawned bright and crisp, painting the brick townhouses of Beacon Hill in sharp autumn golds and reds. Inside Unit 3B on Halsey Street, the air smelled of cinnamon, vanilla frosting, and roasting chicken. Balloons in primary colors bobbed near the living room window, and a homemade banner reading Happy 3rd Birthday Leo & Maya hung crookedly across the mantelpiece.
Evelyn stood in the kitchen, smoothing down the front of her yellow linen dress, her hands visibly shaking as she checked her watch for the fourth time. 1:45 PM.
The party was scheduled for two.
She had invited him—she had pushed the invitation across the table in the jazz lounge like a gambler throwing her last chip—but every instinct told her that Adrian Moretti was incapable of stepping into a domestic world without bringing an earthquake in his wake.
A gentle knock sounded at the front door. Not a heavy mobster pounding, but a single, hesitant rap.
Evelyn froze, a wooden spoon clutched in her hand, her heart hammering against her ribs. She walked slowly out of the kitchen, crossed the hardwood floor of the living room, and reached for the brass doorknob.
She pulled the door open.
It wasn't Adrian standing on the porch.
Standing on the doormat was an elderly woman with silver hair pulled into a severe, immaculate chignon, wearing an impeccably tailored navy wool coat and diamond stud earrings that caught the midday sun. Flanking her on either side were two massive men in dark suits with earpieces—classic Moretti security.
Evelyn’s blood turned instantly to ice.
“Victoria,” Evelyn whispered, her hand gripping the edge of the door so hard her knuckles turned white.
Victoria Moretti stepped across the threshold uninvited, her dark, piercing eyes—the exact same eyes Adrian possessed—sweeping over the cozy, cluttered living room with undisguised contempt.
“Evelyn,” Victoria said, her voice like grinding glass. “Still playing house, I see. How charmingly rustic.”
“How did you find this place?” Evelyn demanded, her voice shaking with sudden, blinding panic as she stepped backward, blocking the hallway leading to the children's bedrooms. “Get out of my house. Right now.”
“Your house?” Victoria gave a cold, dismissive laugh, pulling off her leather gloves and handing them to one of the bodyguards as if she owned the building. “My dear girl, nothing bearing my blood belongs in a tenement like this. When my son proved too weak and sentimental to handle his own family affairs, I had to step in.”
“Adrian didn't tell you,” Evelyn realized with a sickening lurch in her stomach. “You tracked him here.”
“Adrian is currently dealing with a very unpleasant diversion I arranged at Logan Airport to keep him out of your hair for the next few hours,” Victoria said smoothly, stepping further into the room. Her gaze locked onto a pair of small blue rain boots sitting by the coat rack, then drifted toward the birthday decorations. “So where are my grandchildren?”
“You are not touching them,” Evelyn hissed, her voice rising as she stepped firmly in front of the hallway. “You will not bring your world, your violence, your poison anywhere near my children!”
Victoria’s lips tightened into a thin, dangerous line. She stepped closer to Evelyn, towering over her despite her shorter stature, radiating the suffocating authority of a woman who had ordered executions over breakfast.
“Listen to me, you foolish little girl,” Victoria whispered, her voice venomous. “Those children carry Moretti blood. They are heirs to an empire worth billions. They are not going to be raised by a paper-pusher and some broke university professor in a Boston alleyway. They are coming with me to Chicago today. My private jet is waiting on the tarmac.”
“Over my dead body,” Evelyn said, her eyes blazing with a mother’s primal fury.
“That can easily be arranged,” Victoria replied flatly.
At that exact moment, the front door—which had been left slightly ajar by the bodyguards—was kicked violently off its hinges with a deafening crash of splintering wood and sheared brass.
The heavy oak door slammed against the interior wall with enough force to rattle the windowpanes.
Victoria and her bodyguards whipped around.
May you like
Standing in the shattered doorway was Adrian Moretti. His overcoat was torn at the shoulder, his knuckles were bruised and bleeding, and his face was carved out of absolute, murderous rage. Behind him, Marcus stood with a suppressed firearm half-drawn from his jacket, his eyes locked onto Victoria’s men.
“Mother,” Adrian’s voice was a low, terrifying growl that made the room drop ten degrees. “What the hell are you doing in Boston?”
