Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE ON BLACKWOOD HILL
The gates of the Moretti estate in Lincoln looked less like a residence and more like a medieval fortress adapted for modern warfare.
Ten-foot stone walls topped with camera arrays and motion sensors enclosed thirty acres of dense pine forest. The heavy iron gates swung open silently as the Maybach approached, revealing a winding cobblestone driveway illuminated by low, warm landscape lights. At the top of the hill stood a sprawling, stone mansion built in the style of an old Italian villa, its dark slate roof glistening under the relentless rain.
When the car stopped under the grand stone portico, three men in dark suits stepped forward immediately with umbrellas, opening the doors.
Dante stepped out first, then turned and extended his hand to me.
I hesitated, looking at his large, leather-gloved palm. I was wearing a torn t-shirt, faded pants, and scuffed sneakers. I felt like an alien dropping into a world of impossible wealth and terrifying danger.
"Come, Sophia," Dante said gently. "It's cold."
I took his hand. His grip was warm, solid, and impossibly strong as he helped me step out of the high vehicle, keeping his broad shoulders positioned between me and the cold wind whipping through the driveway. One of his guards held a wide black umbrella over us, shielding Lily from a single drop of rain.
Inside, the foyer was breathtaking.
Soaring marble arches, warm hardwood floors, a massive stone fireplace crackling with roaring oak logs, and a winding double staircase that looked like something out of a European palace.
A woman in her late fifties, wearing a sharp grey housekeeper's uniform, stepped forward immediately, her hands folded politely.
"Good evening, Don Dante," she said in a soft, respectful tone.
"Rosa," Dante said, unbuttoning his overcoat and handing it to a guard. "This is Sophia Vance, and her niece, Lily. Sophia will be taking the master guest suite on the second floor."
Rosa’s eyes widened slightly in surprise—clearly, guest suites were rarely assigned so casually—but her professional expression returned instantly. "Of course, sir. Shall I prepare dinner?"
"Immediately," Dante commanded. "High-protein, warm broth, roasted meats, fresh bread, and fruit. And have the estate physician, Dr. Sterling, brought up to the guest suite in twenty minutes to examine the child's ear."
"Right away, sir."
Dante turned back to me. "Follow me."
I followed him up the grand staircase, my feet sinking into thick, plush wool carpets. I held Lily close, her small face nuzzled into my neck. As we walked down the wide, picture-lined corridor of the second floor, I caught glimpses of black-and-white portraits—old men with fierce eyes, family gatherings in Sicily, and a young Dante standing beside a younger, smiling boy with lighter hair.
Julian.
Dante stopped in front of a pair of heavy mahogany doors, pushing them open.
The master guest suite was larger than my entire apartment on East 8th Street. A massive king-sized bed with crisp white linens sat against the far wall, flanked by a roaring gas fireplace, a plush velvet sofa, a private balcony overlooking the gardens, and a nursery nook in the corner equipped with a brand-new, polished wooden crib, complete with fresh blankets and plush toys.
"How... how is there a crib here?" I asked, staring in shock at the pristine nursery setup.
"I had my men buy out an entire infant boutique two hours ago," Dante said simply, stepping into the room. "There are three crates of formula, four brands of bottles, three sizes of diapers, and baby clothing in the adjoining closet. Whatever isn't here, tell Rosa and it will be here by morning."
I stood in the center of the room, feeling completely overwhelmed. Tears pricked my eyes again, but this time they were tears of pure, staggering relief.
I walked over to the crib, gently laying Lily down onto the soft, fitted mattress. She rolled onto her side, let out a tiny, contented sigh, and settled deeply into sleep, surrounded by warmth and soft flannel.
I stood over the crib for a long moment, my hand resting on her tiny back, watching her small chest rise and fall.
Behind me, the soft sound of leather shoes on carpet heralded Dante’s approach. He stopped two feet behind me, his tall frame casting a long, protective shadow across the rug.
"She looks like him," Dante murmured, his voice soft, almost fragile. "She has Julian's nose. And his dark hair."
I turned around slowly to face him. "She has his eyes, too. Dark brown with little golden flecks."
Dante looked down at me. In the warm firelight of the bedroom, without his overcoat and with his jacket unbuttoned, he looked less like a ruthless mafia Don and more like a man carrying an overwhelming weight of grief and responsibility.
"Thank you," Dante whispered.
I blinked. "For what?"
"For keeping her alive," he said, his slate-grey eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my pulse race. "For starving yourself so my brother's daughter could have formula. For fighting for her in a grocery store when you had nothing left to give."
He stepped closer. He was so tall I had to tilt my head back to look into his face. He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently touching the torn seam on my shoulder.
"No one will ever make you choose between bread and medicine again, Sophia," Dante said softly, his voice a deep, binding vow that vibrated straight through my heart. "You are under my roof now. You and Lily are Morettis. And anyone who tries to hurt you will have to burn through me first."
Before I could answer, a knock sounded at the open door.
Rosa stood there carrying a large silver tray laden with steaming bowls of beef stew, freshly baked sourdough bread, roasted vegetables, and a tall glass of fresh juice.
"Your dinner, Miss Vance," Rosa said warmly, bringing the tray over to the small dining table near the fireplace.
My stomach let out a loud, traitorous rumble that echoed through the quiet room.
Dante’s lips curved into a genuine, beautiful smile that completely transformed his dark face, making him look breathtakingly handsome.
"Eat, Sophia," Dante said softly, stepping toward the door. "Get your strength back. Tomorrow, the war begins."
Morning arrived at Blackwood Hill with the quiet, golden light of an autumn sun filtering through the towering pine trees surrounding the estate.
I woke up slowly, floating up from the deepest, most restorative sleep I had experienced in months.
The bed was impossibly comfortable, and Lily was wide awake, lying on her back in her plush yellow onesie, babbling softly to a stuffed white bear that sat in the corner of her crib.
A gentle knock echoed at the door, and Rosa stepped into the suite, carrying a large clothing rack stacked with garment bags, alongside two large leather boxes. Behind her walked two younger women carrying a breakfast tray loaded with scrambled eggs, thick-cut bacon, fresh avocado, toasted brioche, and a pot of steaming dark coffee.
"Don Dante requested that we bring up a selection of clothes for you," Rosa explained. "He had his personal stylist pull items according to the measurements we noted last night. There are casual clothes, sweaters, trousers, and formal wear. All tailored for a full, elegant silhouette."
Twenty minutes later, washed, fed, and dressed in a soft cream cashmere sweater and dark trousers that fitted my curves with effortless perfection, I walked down the grand winding staircase holding Lily in a soft baby carrier strapped securely across my chest.
I found Dante in the conservatory at the rear of the mansion. He was sitting at a glass table reviewing a thick stack of financial ledgers.
As my shoes clicked softly against the marble floor, Dante looked up. His grey eyes locked onto me, a subtle, powerful flare of appreciation lighting up his face.
"Sophia. Good morning."
"Good morning, Dante," I said, stepping into the sunlit room.
He stood up, sliding a thick financial folder across the table toward me. "This is the paper trail Clara left behind. My intelligence chief spent the night analyzing the bank transfers from the Cayman account that paid your landlord yesterday."
"Where did Clara get ninety-four thousand dollars?" I asked, looking at the printed bank statements.
"Clara’s offshore account was initially funded four months ago with a wire transfer of five million dollars," Dante said gravely. "From a secret slush fund operated by the Moretti Syndicate's shipping logistics firm. A fund managed by my late brother, Julian."
Before I could process the massive figure, the glass door swung open. Matteo, Dante’s chief of security, stepped into the room with a grim expression.
"Don Dante," Matteo reported. "Marco Rossi has called an emergency meeting of the Syndicate Commission for two o'clock today. He claims you are harboring an enemy of the syndicate and using Clara Vance’s sister to cover up financial theft."
May you like
Dante’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He stood up, placing his hand firmly on my shoulder.
"Marco wants a war," Dante said coldly. "He thinks because I’ve been grieving my brother, I’ve grown soft. Matteo, prepare the armored convoy. We are attending the Commission meeting."
