Chapter 3 - THE PRIVATE WINGI had worked in the Moretti mansion for eight months, but I had never set foot past the double oak doors at the end of the third-floor corridor—Luca’s private quarters.
The estate was a fortress, but his private suite was a sanctuary. The air smelled of expensive leather, cedarwood, and clean linen. A massive king-sized bed sat against a brick wall, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rain-slicked gardens of the estate.
Luca carried me inside, bypassing the silk couches, and set me down gently on the edge of his massive bed.
"Stay here," he said quietly.
He walked into his master bathroom and returned a moment later carrying a silver basin of warm water, clean white towels, an emergency trauma kit, and a pair of sharp medical shears.
He pulled a wooden stool up to the bed and sat down directly in front of me. Without asking, he reached out and gently lifted my injured right leg, resting my calf on his knee.
"This is going to sting," he warned softly.
Using the shears, he carefully cut away the torn, blood-soaked fabric of my stockings, exposing the long, jagged cut Julian had inflicted on my calf. My breath hitched, my fingers digging into the plush velvet comforter.
Luca paused immediately, looking up into my eyes. "Hurts?"
"A little," I admitted, my voice trembling. "I'm sorry..."
"Don't apologize," he said, his dark thumb gently wiping a speck of dirt from my ankle. "You endured a beating from a coward to protect my estate. You have nothing to apologize for."
He dipped a cloth into the warm water and began cleaning the cut with meticulous, gentle care. For a man whose hands were covered in gun calluses and syndicate tattoos, his touch was impossibly soft.
As he worked, I couldn't stop staring at him. Luca Moretti was a legend in the underworld—a cold, calculating Don who had consolidated power across three states through sheer intelligence and unyielding violence. Yet here he was, kneeling on his bedroom floor, cleaning the blood off a twenty-three-year-old maid's leg.
"Why didn't you scream when Julian grabbed you?" Luca asked softly, applying an antiseptic ointment to the cut before wrapping it in crisp white gauze.
"He held a knife to my neck," I whispered. "He told me if I made a sound, he’d make sure my sister, Lily, never made it home from her middle school."
Luca’s hands stilled on my leg. He slowly raised his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my heart leap into my throat.
"Where is your sister right now?"
"At her boarding school in upstate New York," I said, my bottom lip trembling. "I take this job—I endure Vanessa’s cruelty—because the salary pays Lily’s tuition. Our parents died three years ago. I'm all she has."
Luca stood up, pulling a sleek black satellite phone from his jacket pocket. He tapped a single speed-dial button and put the phone to his ear.
"Marco," Luca said coldly into the receiver. "Dispatch Team Four to St. Jude’s Academy in Westchester. Pick up Lily Vance. Put four armed guards on her dorm room until further notice. No one touches the girl. Am I clear?"
He listened for a second, nodded, and hung up.
He looked back at me. "Your sister is safe. No one will ever touch her. You have my word on my life."
Tears, hot and unstoppable, finally broke past my defenses. For months I had been carrying the terrifying weight of my sister's safety, surviving Vanessa's subtle tortures and Julian's disgusting threats, completely alone in the world.
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Luca stepped closer, sitting down beside me on the edge of the mattress. He didn't hesitate; he wrapped his large arms around my shoulders and pulled me gently against his chest. I buried my face into the lapel of his suit jacket, crying quietly as his heavy, warm hand stroked my hair.
"You're safe now, Claire," he murmured against my hair, his voice a low, steady rumble. "I've got you."
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