Chapter 2 - The Fortress on the Hill
An hour later, I found myself sitting in the leather interior of a sleek black Maybach cruising through the iron gates of a sprawling estate in Upper East Side, Manhattan.
Zach had fallen fast asleep on the seat beside me, his small head resting heavily against my thigh, his tiny fingers still loosely wrapped around my pinky finger.
Across from us sat Michael Moretti. He had removed his black wool coat, revealing his broad shoulders beneath a dark gray vest. He was reading through a file on a leather-bound tablet, sipping a glass of rare bourbon.
I stared out the tinted window at the towering limestone mansion surrounded by twelve-foot security walls, high-definition cameras, and armed guards walking discreetly along the perimeter.
"This is ridiculous," I whispered, breaking the quiet hum of the engine. "Mr. Moretti, I appreciate you scaring away Regina and paying off those men, but I can't stay here. I don't belong in your world."
Michael set his glass down, looking up from his tablet with eyes that seemed to see right through me.
"You have twenty-four dollars in your coat pocket, Aurora," Michael said smoothly, reciting the contents of my life as if reading off a ledger. "No home. No family. A stepmother who will eventually find another loan shark to sell you to the moment I turn my back. Where do you plan to go?"
I swallowed hard, the harsh truth of his words stinging like a slap in the face. "I'll find a job. I'll leave New York."
"You won't make it to the bus station," Michael replied calmly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Regina isn't your only problem. Your late father, Arthur Vance, wasn't just a high school teacher. Did you know that?"
My breath caught in my throat. "What are you talking about?"
"Arthur Vance worked for my late father thirty years ago as an accountant," Michael revealed softly. "Before he died three months ago, Arthur hid a ledger containing the names, offshore accounts, and laundering networks of the Russian syndicate operating out of Brighton Beach. They believe you have that ledger, Aurora."
My blood ran cold. "I... I don't have any ledger! My father never talked about his work!"
"They don't care," Michael said, his eyes burning with an intense, dark sincerity. "The moment you walked out of Bellarosa tonight, six different crews started hunting for you. The safest place on the entire Eastern Seaboard right now is inside my house, sitting beside my son."
The Maybach came to a smooth stop under the grand portico of the mansion.
Dante opened the door, bowing respectfully as Michael stepped out into the chilly night air. Michael turned, reaching out his large, warm hand to help me down from the high leather seat.
I hesitated, looking at his hand—a hand that had ordered the destruction of empires, yet held his sleeping son with unbelievable tenderness.
May you like
I placed my small hand in his. His grip was warm, solid, and strangely comforting.
"Welcome to the Moretti estate, Miss Vance," Michael whispered softly into the quiet night. "Your sanctuary."
