Chapter 8 - The Desperate Pilgrimage
By three o'clock that afternoon, the sleet had turned into a relentless, bone-chilling rain that washed over the stone steps of the Moretti estate in Lake Forest.
A single yellow taxi cab—battered, its muffler sputtering—pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gates at the end of the long driveway. The driver refused to go any further; the sight of two armed guards standing beneath the stone gatehouse with automatic rifles under their rain capes was more than enough to convince him to eject his passenger at the curb.
Olivia Sinclair stepped out into the freezing slush.
She was unrecognizable from the woman who had walked into the Imperial Crown ballroom twenty-four hours earlier. Her blonde hair, normally sculpted into immaculate waves, was plastered against her face by the rain. She wore a black wool coat that had soaked through at the shoulders, and she dragged a single, water-stained suitcase across the gravel.
She had no money left. Her personal credit cards had been declined at three different ATMs. Her friends—the women who had praised her taste, who had laughed at her jokes, who had cheered when she tore the waitress's uniform—had all blocked her number. When she tried to enter the boutique on Michigan Avenue where she held an account, the security guard had physically blocked the doorway, informing her that her presence was "inconvenient to the clientele."
She was an outcast. An untouchable. In the span of a single rotation of the earth, Dante Moretti had removed her from the human race.
She approached the gatehouse, her teeth chattering so violently she could barely articulate the words.
"Please," she sobbed to the guard behind the bulletproof glass. "Please... I need to see Mrs. Moretti. Tell her... tell her it's Olivia. Tell her I'm here to apologize. Please."
The guard looked at her through the glass without a shred of emotion. He pressed a button on the internal console. "Gate two. The Sinclair girl is here."
A pause of thirty seconds followed, during which Olivia felt the ice water seep completely through the soles of her designer boots.
Then, the heavy iron gates began to swing open with a low, hydraulic groan.
"Walk up the drive," the guard said over the external speaker. "Leave the suitcase."
Olivia did not hesitate. She abandoned her luggage in the slush and began the quarter-mile walk up the winding, tree-lined driveway. The estate was vast, surrounded by towering pines that groaned in the winter wind. At the end of the drive stood the main house—a massive, century-old stone manor that looked less like a home and more like a fortress built to withstand a siege.
When she reached the wide stone portico, the heavy oak doors were opened by an elderly woman in a neat, black domestic uniform.
"Wipe your feet," the housekeeper said coldly, stepping aside.
Olivia stepped into the grand foyer.
The warmth inside was almost painful against her frozen skin. The air smelled of beeswax, lemon oil, and burning birchwood from a massive fireplace that dominated the far wall. On the walls hung original oil paintings—not the cold, abstract splatters favored by Victor’s corporate crowd, but rich, classical landscapes filled with light and shadow.
Standing near the fireplace, holding a porcelain cup of tea, was Evelyn.
She did not look like the waitress in the torn polyester. She wore a soft, cream-colored cashmere sweater that draped gracefully over her full figure, paired with a long, pleated wool skirt in deep forest green. Her chestnut hair was down, falling in soft, healthy waves over her shoulders. She wore no jewelry except for a simple, heavy gold wedding band on her left hand.
She looked calm. Grounded. Regal in a way that had nothing to do with money and everything to do with peace.
Behind her, leaning against the edge of the carved stone mantelpiece with a glass of scotch in his hand, stood Dante.
His presence in the room was like a loaded cannon sitting in a drawing room. He did not move, but the sheer weight of his dark eyes upon Olivia made her legs give out entirely.
Olivia fell to her knees against the Persian rug, her wet clothes dripping onto the fine wool.
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"Mrs. Moretti," Olivia wept, pressing her forehead against the floorboards. "Please. Please, I beg of you. Tell him to stop. Tell him to spare my family."
***
