Chapter 5 - THE PALM SHORES ESTATEThe Moretti estate in Miami was entirely different from the dark, gothic mansion in New York.
Situated on a private peninsula in Palm Shores, the property was a sprawling ultra-modern villa constructed of white concrete, floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and infinity pools that bled directly into the turquoise waters of the Atlantic Ocean. The air was warm, thick with the scent of salt water and blooming hibiscus.
When our convoy of blacked-out SUVs pulled through the grand iron gates, a dozen heavily armed security men lined the driveway, dipping their heads respectfully as Luca’s car came to a stop.
Luca stepped out first, then reached back inside to offer me his hand.
I took it, stepping down onto the warm stone driveway. I was wearing a simple, elegant sun dress Marco's team had purchased for me at the airport boutique—soft blue linen that reached below my knees, covering my bandages while keeping me cool in the Florida heat.
A tall, silver-haired man in a tailored gray suit stepped forward to greet us. This was Matteo, Luca’s regional Underboss for the Southern Syndicate.
"Welcome back, Boss," Matteo said, bowing his head slightly. Then his eyes flicked to me, a momentary spark of curiosity crossing his weathered face. "And this is...?"
"Claire Vance," Luca introduced smoothly, pulling me slightly closer to his side. "Miss Vance is traveling with me under my personal protection. She has absolute authority in this house. Anything she requires, she gets. Am I understood, Matteo?"
Matteo’s eyes widened slightly, realizing the magnitude of Luca’s words. A girl given "absolute authority" by Luca Moretti was practically a queen.
"Understood, Boss," Matteo said respectfully. "Your suites have been prepared."
Luca led me inside the stunning villa. We walked past towering indoor palm trees and glass bridges spanning clear water features until we reached the master wing.
Unlike the New York mansion, where my room had been down in the staff quarters, here my bedroom was located directly inside Luca’s private suite, separated only by a set of massive mahogany pocket doors.
"Get some rest," Luca told me, standing in the doorway of my room. "I have a meeting with the port directors down at the marina tonight. I’ll have dinner sent up to your room."
"Are you going alone?" I asked, a sudden prickle of anxiety touching my spine.
Luca smiled—a real, genuine smile that transformed his intimidating, scarred face into something breathtakingly handsome.
"I am never alone, Claire," he said, touching my cheek softly with his thumb. "My men surround the marina. I'll be back before midnight. Lock the terrace doors from the inside, alright?"
"I will," I promised.
He lingered for a second, his thumb trailing down to the corner of my jaw, his dark eyes searching mine with a heavy, magnetic intensity that made my breath catch in my throat. Then he pulled back, turned, and walked out down the corridor.
That evening, I ate a quiet dinner on the balcony, watching the sun dip below the horizon, painting the Florida sky in shades of deep violet and gold. The ocean breeze blew softly against my face, soothing the lingering ache in my cuts.
Around 10:30 PM, I was sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book when I heard a faint, distinct sound coming from the adjoining hallway.
A quiet scuff of leather shoes on marble.
I froze.
Luca had said he wouldn't be back until midnight. And his security team had strict orders never to enter the master wing without being summoned.
I slowly set my book down, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs.
I stood up, gripping a heavy brass candlestick from the nightstand, and walked silently toward the pocket doors connecting my room to the main suite.
I peeked through the quarter-inch crack.
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Standing near Luca’s private desk was a man in a dark tactical vest, his face covered by a black balaclava. He was holding a high-speed digital scanner, pressing it against the electronic lock of Luca’s wall safe.
And standing right behind him, holding a suppressed pistol, was Julian Bellini.
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