Chapter 2 - The Iron Gate of St. Charles
The custom Mercedes-Maybach glided through the wrought-iron gates of the Marchetti estate on St. Charles Avenue like a phantom entering a crypt.
Delia sat in the sprawling leather backseat, flanked by the two sleeping boys while the little girl dozed restlessly in her carrier on the opposite seat. Anton sat across from her in the jump seat, his massive frame cramped in the luxury interior, staring at her with unblinking intensity as the ancient oak trees draped in Spanish moss slid past the tinted windows.
“You live here alone with them?” Delia asked softly, trying to break the suffocating silence.
“And a rotating army of terrified nannies,” Anton replied dryly. “Though it appears our employment retention rate has just hit a wall.”
“I am not your nanny, Mr. Marchetti.”
“Anton,” he corrected automatically.
“Mr. Marchetti,” she repeated stubbornly. “I have an apartment. I have two jobs. I have a cat who gets anxious if I’m gone past midnight.”
“Your cat will be taken care of,” Anton said smoothly. “Your apartment will be bought out if security requires it. Miss Marsh—Delia—you don't seem to understand the position you’re in. My enemies know about my children. They know the triplets are my only heirs. Two months ago, someone tried to run our vehicle off the Causeway. If my children recognize something in you... if they have attached their fragile, broken little worlds to your presence... you are no longer safe walking down Magazine Street alone.”
Delia’s breath hitched. The reality of the mafia underworld she usually read about in the Times-Picayune suddenly crashed into her living space. “You’re threatening me?”
“I am protecting you,” Anton corrected, his voice hardening. “Because if my boys wake up tomorrow morning and start screaming for you again, and you aren't there... I won't be able to stop what happens next.”
The car rolled to a smooth halt under the grand portico of the mansion. Before Anton could even touch the handle, Donovan was opening the door, his hand resting reassuringly near his holster as he scanned the shadowy gardens.
The interior of the Marchetti estate was breathtaking—a dizzying blend of Gilded Age opulence and high-tech fortress security. Biometric scanners glowed blue on the heavy mahogany doors; security monitors in the hallway flashed silent, endless loops of perimeter cameras.
Mrs. Gable, the silver-haired housekeeper who had run the household for thirty years, met them in the marble foyer. Her eyes widened in utter shock when she saw Anton walking in carrying one of the sleeping boys, followed closely by Donovan carrying the second boy, and Delia walking beside them with her hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of her oversized diner apron.
“Boss?” Mrs. Gable gasped, her gaze snapping to Delia. “Who is—what is happening?”
“Get the nursery ready,” Anton commanded quietly, shifting the baby comfortably against his broad shoulder. “Not the guest wing. Set up the connecting suite on the master floor.”
Mrs. Gable’s jaw dropped an inch. The master floor was strictly off-limits. Nobody had slept on that floor since Isabella died.
“Sir, are you sure—?”
“Do it, Mrs. Gable.”
Delia stood in the center of the grand foyer, feeling entirely out of place against the backdrop of crystal chandeliers and priceless oil paintings. “I need to go home, Mr. Marchetti. It’s past eleven. My shift tomorrow starts at six.”
“You don't work tomorrow,” Anton said, turning back to face her as he handed the sleeping child to a trembling young woman who looked like the eleventh nanny. “In fact, consider yourself on an indefinite paid leave from the diner. Donovan has already arranged it with your manager.”
“You didn't have the right to do that!”
“I have the right to protect my family,” Anton snapped, his temper finally fraying at the edges. He took a step toward her, closing the distance so fast she had to tilt her head back to meet his furious, dark gaze. “My wife died on a wet stretch of concrete twelve miles out over Lake Pontchartrain while carrying our babies. For six months, I have watched my children wither away in silent grief, unable to cry, unable to speak, unable to connect to this world. And then you walked into a greasy spoon, hummed a tune they hadn't heard since the hospital, and brought them back to life.”
May you like
He stopped, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath his tailored vest.
“You think this is about control, Delia? This is about survival. You aren't leaving this house until my sons wake up and tell me they don't need you anymore.”
