Chapter 6 - Bloodlines
The following morning, Luca was gone before sunrise.
There was no note on the kitchen counter, no cryptic instructions left with Maria, and no sign of the violence that had unfolded in the hallway the night before. The broken furniture in the study had been replaced, the hardwood floors polished to a mirror shine, and Mateo was standing by the conservatory doors with his hands folded politely behind his back, looking as though the events of midnight had never occurred.
Except for the TE-gel sitting on the kitchen island, right where I had left it. Next to it sat a small velvet box from a jeweler in Center City.
I hesitated, Leo balanced on my left hip, before reaching out and lifting the lid.
Inside rested a delicate platinum chain, woven with exquisite craftsmanship, designed specifically with a breakaway safety clasp. Beneath it was a small card written in Luca's sharp, angled hand:
So he doesn't choke you when he pulls. Clean your hands of my mess.
— L.
I stared at the platinum links, a knot forming in my throat. He was trying to buy forgiveness in the only currency he understood: expensive metals, protective gear, and quiet detachment. I snapped the box shut, slid it into my pocket, and went about Leo’s breakfast.
By mid-afternoon, an unusual visitor arrived at the estate.
I was sitting on the carpet in the grand salon, watching Leo attempt to balance three wooden stacking rings on a central peg, when the front doors swung open without the usual security radio warning.
A tall, elegant woman stepped into the foyer. She appeared to be in her early sixties, dressed in an impeccably tailored black Chanel suit, with silver-streaked dark hair swept up into an aristocratic chignon. She had high, sharp cheekbones, piercing grey eyes that were an exact match for Leo’s, and a demeanor that radiated generational authority.
Two private guards in black suits followed her, but Mateo stepped forward immediately, bowing his head with deep deference.
"Signora Moretti," Mateo said, his tone reverent. "We were not expecting you until the weekend."
"My son rarely informs me of his domestic arrangements, Mateo," the woman said, her voice smooth, cultured, and carrying the crisp cadence of northern Italian aristocracy. "I decided to see the new acquisition for myself."
Her cold grey eyes swept across the salon, locking directly onto me sitting on the floor.
Leo paused, the wooden ring slipping from his chubby fingers. He didn't cry, but he immediately crawled backward until his back was pressed against my knees, his small hands reaching up to grip my trousers.
"You must be the waitress," she said, gliding into the room with the grace of an apex predator. Her diamond rings clicked softly against her alligator leather handbag.
I stood up smoothly, lifting Leo into my arms to keep him secure. "I’m Avery Miller. And you must be Luca’s mother."
Her lips tightened slightly at my lack of deferential title. "Contessa Francesca Moretti. And this child is the sole heir to the Moretti lineage." She stepped closer, her sharp gaze dissecting me from head to toe—my simple linen shirt, my lack of jewelry, my posture. "Luca told me he found a girl who could quiet the boy. I expected an experienced governess from Switzerland, not an orphaned server from South Philadelphia."
The insult was delivered with surgical precision, wrapped in silk.
"I may not have a Swiss pedigree, Mrs. Moretti," I answered calmly, holding Leo close as he tucked his head into my collarbone, "but your grandson hasn't had a night terror in three weeks, he’s gained two pounds, and he sleeps through the night. If you’d prefer a governess who makes him scream until he vomits, you’re welcome to discuss that with your son."
Francesca’s eyebrows arched in mild surprise. For a second, a flicker of cold amusement crossed her aristocratic features.
"He warned me you had a mouth," she remarked, walking over to a nearby settee and sitting with regal composure. "Elena had a mouth, too. Look where it brought her."
The casual cruelty of the comment hit the room like sub-zero water. Behind her, even Mateo shifted uncomfortably.
"Elena was murdered by your family’s enemies," I countered, my voice low and steady. "Her tragedy wasn't her personality. It was the crossfire."
"In this family, young woman, there is no difference between personality and survival," Francesca said, leaning forward, her grey eyes narrowing like scalpel blades. "My son looks at you and sees a temporary anesthetic. He sees a woman who wears Elena’s trinket and smells like ordinary peace. But peace is an illusion in our world. You are a civilian. When the next war breaks out—and it will break out—you will either break under the weight of it or you will run, leaving that child more damaged than before."
She stood up, smoothing the front of her skirt, and stepped directly into my personal space. Up close, she smelled of expensive iris perfume and vintage champagne.
"Take the money my son gives you," Francesca whispered, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp warning. "Save every dollar. But do not make the mistake of falling in love with him. Luca was forged in iron and blood. He will burn down entire cities to keep Leo safe, but he has no heart left for a woman. If you forget your place, this house will swallow you whole."
She reached out a manicured, ring-heavy hand to touch Leo’s cheek, but the baby twisted violently away, burying his face deeper into my neck and letting out a sharp whimper of rejection.
Francesca’s hand froze in mid-air. Her expression tightened into a mask of bitter disappointment, her eyes lingering on the tiny boy who refused to acknowledge his own grandmother.
"He has his father’s temper," she muttered, pulling her hand back. "Mateo. Have my car brought around. I have seen enough."
She turned and swept out of the salon, her heels clicking rhythmically across the marble floor until the heavy front doors closed behind her.
I let out a long, ragged breath, my arms trembling slightly as I held Leo tighter against my ribs. "Well," I whispered into his soft hair, "she seems lovely."
Leo looked up at me, his stormy grey eyes wide and curious, and patted my cheek with a sticky palm, as if assuring me that he was on my side.
That evening, the house was silent. Luca did not return at seven. He did not return at eight.
It was nearly midnight when I heard the low rumble of an engine outside. I was sitting in the library on the second floor, the nursery monitor resting on the table beside me, reading through old property records of Philadelphia I had pulled from Luca’s shelves to pass the time.
The heavy library door swung open.
Luca stepped inside. He had stripped off his tie, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat, looking exhausted, worn down to the bone. When he saw me sitting in the leather wingback chair, he stopped, his shoulders dropping an inch.
"My mother was here," he said without preamble.
"She introduced herself," I replied, setting the book down. "She’s very charming. Offered me career advice."
Luca let out a dark, dry chuckle, walking over to the bar cart to pour two fingers of single-malt scotch. "She’s a viper. She thinks everyone outside our bloodline is an interloper looking for an inheritance."
"Is she right?"
Luca turned, tumbler in hand, and leaned against the mahogany credenza. His dark eyes swept over me in the dim library lamplight, lingering on the platinum chain I had fastened around my neck—the one he had left on the kitchen counter that morning.
He noticed it immediately. A subtle, dangerous warmth flared in his gaze.
"You wore it," he observed quietly.
"It was practical," I lied. "The old one was digging into my neck."
Luca walked over to my chair, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator stalking familiar territory. He set his glass down on the side table, leaned over the arm of the chair, and rested his hand on the leather just inches from my shoulder. His proximity was intoxicating, carrying the scent of night air, cedar, and the clean edge of his cologne.
"My mother told you not to fall in love with me," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that vibrated through my ribs.
My heart gave a violent, traitorous thump. "Did Mateo report everything?"
"Mateo reports what keeps this house alive," Luca answered, leaning closer until his face was bare inches from mine. "Did you listen to her?"
"I always listen to older women with expensive jewelry," I whispered, my voice barely audible in the quiet room. "They usually know what they’re talking about."
Luca reached out, his long, scarred fingers tracing the path of the platinum chain from the hollow of my throat up toward the curve of my jaw. His touch was burning hot against my cool skin, sending shudders of raw electricity down my spine.
"She’s wrong, Avery," he whispered, his thumb resting gently against the corner of my lower lip. "She thinks I’m made of stone. But around you... I don't feel like stone at all."
May you like
He leaned down, his lips brushing the space just below my ear, his breath hot against my neck. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to pull away, to run back to my guest suite, to remember the blood on his knuckles from the night before.
Instead, my hand reached up, my fingers curling into the crisp fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer into the dark.
