Chapter 3 - The King’s Debt
The smell of iodine, surgical disinfectant, and expensive roasted tobacco woke me.
I gasped, my back arching off the mattress as a sharp, white-hot throb tore through my right thigh. A gentle, firm hand immediately pressed against my shoulder, pinning me safely against the linen.
“Easy, Miss Collins. Lie still. You’ve lost nearly three pints of blood, and I’ve just finished putting thirty-eight stitches into your quadricep.”
I blinked against the warm amber light. I wasn't in a county hospital. I was in a massive bedroom lined with dark mahogany bookshelves, a Persian rug on the floor, and a roaring fire in a grand stone hearth. Sitting on a leather stool beside the bed was Dr. Paul Rossi, the Moretti family’s personal trauma surgeon. His sleeves were rolled up, his silver hair immaculate, his hands steady as he tied off a surgical suture.
“Lily...” The name tore out of my parched throat like dry leaves.
“She’s fast asleep in the next room,” a deep, gravelly voice answered from the shadows near the balcony doors.
My eyes snapped toward the sound.
Luca Moretti stood silhouetted against the rainy Chicago night. He had stripped off his blood-stained tuxedo jacket and silk tie. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the cuffs rolled to his elbows, revealing the intricate black ink of patron saints and armor plates winding down his forearms. In his right hand, he swirled an amber glass of scotch.
He set the glass down on a side table and walked over to the bed. Every movement was measured, predatory, yet completely restrained.
Dr. Rossi packed his instruments into a leather satchel, gave Luca a brief, respectful nod, and stepped out, clicking the heavy door shut behind him.
The silence that settled over the bedroom was thick enough to suffocate.
Luca pulled the leather stool closer and sat down. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his piercing gray eyes raking over the white gauze bandages wrapping my arms, the butterfly stitches on my cheek, and finally the thick pressure dressing around my leg.
“The blade severed the lateral fascia,” Luca said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble in the quiet room. “Half an inch to the left and it would have hit the femoral artery. You would have bled to death in that corridor in less than four minutes.”
“I had to get to her,” I whispered, pulling the heavy duvet up over my chest, suddenly painfully aware of the contrast between my plain cotton hospital gown and the lavish opulence of his master suite. “She was crying. She couldn't breathe in there.”
Luca didn't speak for a long time. He simply stared at me, his gaze so intense, so raw, that I had to force myself not to look away. For eleven months, I had been a shadow in this mansion—the quiet housekeeper who dusted the moldings, ironed his shirts, and slipped into the nursery to tuck Lily into bed after he returned from his late-night business meetings smelling of smoke and iron. He had barely spoken twenty words to me in all that time.
Now, he looked at me as if I were the only living thing left in his world.
“Vanessa claimed she dropped the utility knife and you stepped on it,” he said quietly.
A bitter laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it. “Is that what she told you?”
“It doesn't matter what she told me,” Luca replied, his jaw hardening into granite. “Her fingerprints were on the hilt. Your blood was on the blade. And Daniel found the security tape she tried to wipe from the sub-level camera.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper—the same paper Lily had clutched in her pocket before I lost consciousness. He unfolded it with slow, deliberate precision and held it out so I could see.
It was an admission agreement for St. Jude’s Residential Academy, a high-security boarding school in the remote mountains of northern Wisconsin. The institution catered to wealthy families who wanted their ‘troublesome’ children permanently removed from public view. Minimum age: three years.
At the bottom of the form was a legal signature block authorizing the immediate transfer of custody upon the marriage of Luca Moretti and Vanessa Bellini.
And on the line marked Parent/Guardian, in dark black ink, was Luca Moretti’s signature.
“I didn't sign this,” Luca said, his voice dropping into that chilling, sub-zero register. “My brother used an electronic signature stamp from my private office safe. The safe only two people had the combination to.”
“Michael?” I breathed.
“And Vanessa.” Luca folded the paper back up, his fingers steady, though I could see the lethal rage vibrating beneath his skin. “The Bellini family wanted more than an alliance through marriage, Hannah. Vanessa’s father is losing his shipping terminals to the feds. They needed my empire. But they knew as long as Lily was my blood, my heir, my heart... Vanessa would never truly hold the reins.”
“What did you do to them?” The question slipped out before my survival instincts could censor it.
Luca looked at me, a dark, dangerous half-smile touching his lips. “They are in the cellar. All thirty-six guests have been sent home under strict non-disclosure agreements enforced by Daniel’s men. The wedding is canceled. The Bellini alliance is dead.”
He stood up, towering over the bed, his presence commanding and immense. He reached out and, with an astonishing tenderness that seemed impossible for a man who ordered assassinations, tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were warm against my skin, sending a strange, electric jolt straight to my core.
“You saved my daughter’s life, Hannah Collins,” he said softly. “You took a blade for her. You swung a hammer with blood filling your shoes while thirty-six cowards watched.”
“I’m just her nanny, Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
“No,” Luca said, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. “You were her nanny when the sun came up this morning. But tonight? You are the woman this family owes its existence to. And a Moretti always pays his debts.”
Before I could answer, the door connected to the adjoining suite creaked open.
A tiny figure in oversized pink bunny pajamas stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes with a clenched fist.
“Miss Hannah?” Lily’s small voice wavered. “Daddy?”
Luca turned instantly, dropping to one knee with arms wide. “Come here, baby.”
Lily ran across the carpet, but she didn't jump into Luca’s lap. She scurried straight past her father’s outstretched arms, scrambled up onto the edge of the mattress, and threw her tiny arms around my neck, burying her face into my chest.
“I missed you,” she sobbed softly. “My leg hurt, but your leg was red. Don't go away, Miss Hannah.”
May you like
I wrapped my bandaged arms around her small, warm body, burying my face in her soft curls, tears stinging my eyes. Across the bed, Luca stayed frozen on one knee. He looked at his daughter clinging to me, and for the first time since I had met him, the terrifying Mafia boss looked completely, utterly humbled.
“She won't go away, Lily-bug,” Luca said, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion. “I promise you. She’s never leaving this house.”
