Chapter 3 - The Fortress on the Hill
The Moretti estate in Lake Forest wasn't a house; it was an iron-and-granite fortress hidden behind ten acres of oak trees and twelve-foot stone walls topped with discrete security sensors.
When the black armored SUV cleared the main gates, Clara had her face pressed against the tinted glass, her wide eyes reflecting the floodlights illuminating the manicured grounds.
"Is this a castle, Mommy?" Clara asked, her small voice echoing in the leather-scented cabin of the car. "Is the big man with the shiny watch a king?"
"No, sweetie," I murmured, smoothing down her messy blonde hair while my heart beat a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "He’s... he’s just my new boss."
"He let me keep the strawberry bowl," Clara announced proudly, holding up a small ceramic dish wrapped in a napkin. "And Mr. Matteo said I can pick the movie tonight."
I looked across the cabin at Matteo—a broad, scarred man who looked like he had broken bones for a living—sitting in the front passenger seat. To my utter disbelief, the ruthless security chief offered Clara a tiny, remarkably gentle nod through the rearview mirror.
When the car stopped in front of the grand stone entrance, Adriano was already standing on the steps.
He had shed his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing thick, corded muscle and the faint dark edge of a tattoo winding up his left wrist.
He opened the car door himself.
Before I could step out, Clara scrambled past me, landing on the gravel driveway with her small pink sneakers. She looked up at the towering mafia Don without a shred of fear.
"Mr. Boss," Clara said serious as a judge. "Your house is very big, but you have too many men standing in the bushes."
I almost passed out on the leather seats. "Clara!"
Adriano didn't frown. He didn't snap.
Instead, the feared ruler of the Moretti syndicate dropped down onto one knee right there on the wet gravel, bringing himself eye-level with my six-year-old daughter.
"They're not in the bushes to scare you, little one," Adriano said softly, his deep voice taking on a low, quiet warmth I hadn't heard in his office. "They're there to make sure nobody comes into our yard without an invitation."
Clara contemplated this for a second, her brows furrowed in deep thought. Then, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a small pink butterfly sticker she had saved from her coloring book, and reached out.
Without hesitation, she stuck the bright pink butterfly directly onto the face of Adriano’s hundred-thousand-dollar Swiss watch.
I stopped breathing. Matteo, standing by the car door, flinched like he expected a grenade to go off.
Adriano looked down at his watch. He looked at the pink butterfly covering the sapphire crystal glass.
Then, he looked up at Clara, his dark hazel eyes gleaming with a strange, fierce light.
"A very effective tactical disguise," Adriano murmured, standing up smoothly and offering Clara his hand. "Come inside. The chef made chocolate cake, and your mother looks like she needs a glass of wine before her head explodes."
An hour later, Clara was fast asleep in a massive, canopy-bedded room down the hall, wrapped in silk sheets with a guard posted right outside her door.
I stood in the estate’s private library, holding a crystal glass of red wine, staring at a wall covered in framed historical maps of the Chicago harbor.
The heavy oak door opened, and Adriano stepped in, carrying a thick black leather binder under his arm. He walked over to the desk, dropping the binder onto the leather blotter with a heavy thud.
"What is that?" I asked, setting my wine glass down.
"That," Adriano said, pouring himself two fingers of scotch, "is the complete financial ledger of Moretti Logistics for the last five years. Every lease, every shipping manifest, every legal retainer."
I walked over to the desk, opening the binder. The numbers were staggering—hundreds of millions of dollars flowing through rail yards, container ships, and freight terminals.
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Because Victor Marcone didn't try to trap me at that bar on a whim," Adriano said, walking over to stand beside me. The faint scent of cedarwood, rich tobacco, and rain drifted off his skin, wrapping around my senses like a velvet shroud. "He had inside information. He knew exactly which port authorities were vulnerable, and he knew which legal loopholes my old legal team missed."
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I looked up from the ledger, meeting his intense gaze. "You think you have a mole inside Moretti Enterprises?"
"I know I do," Adriano whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from my ear. "And I want my new head counsel to tear my own company apart until she finds the snake who sold me out."
