Chapter 4 - The Fortress on Long Island
The Moretti estate in Oheka Pines was not a home; it was a fortress disguised as a Renaissance palace.
High stone walls topped with security cameras surrounded fifty acres of manicured gardens, dense oak forests, and sweeping views of the Long Island Sound. Heavy wrought-iron gates swung open automatically as the black Maybach carrying Penelope pulled up the winding gravel driveway.
When Penelope stepped out of the vehicle, she was greeted by an intimidating man built like a brick wall. He wore a dark suit, had a faded scar running from his left ear to his jawline, and possessed the eyes of a hawk.
"Miss Hayes," the man said, offering a curt nod. "I'm Marco, Chief of Security for the estate. Mr. Moretti asked me to show you to your quarters."
Penelope followed Marco through a side entrance, passing through vaulted corridors lined with oil paintings and marble statues. Yet, despite the staggering wealth, the estate felt eerily cold and quiet.
Her living quarters, however, took her breath away.
It was a private, two-room cottage attached to the eastern wing of the main house, overlooking a private walled garden. It featured a plush queen-sized bed, a private fireplace, a deep soaking tub, and a small sitting area filled with fresh flowers.
"The kitchen is through that double door," Marco explained, handing her a brass key and a secure electronic keycard. "Mr. Salvatore wakes at eight. He takes his espresso in the sunroom. Dominic is usually in his office by six."
"And Julian?" Penelope asked, remembering her condition.
Marco’s face remained stoic, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "Mr. Julian resides in the west wing. He rarely surfaces before noon. If you need anything—anything at all—use the intercom to contact security."
After unpacking her simple wardrobe, Penelope put on a fresh apron—a simple dark blue cotton one she had brought from home—and entered the main kitchen.
Calling it a kitchen was an understatement. It was a commercial-grade culinary laboratory featuring stainless-steel appliances, marble island counters, and a walk-in refrigerator larger than Penelope’s entire bedroom in Bensonhurst.
She opened the walk-in fridge and groaned.
It was stocked with pre-packaged organic kale, vacuum-sealed sous-vide steaks, exotic truffles, and rows of identical, unlabelled meal-prep containers. It was cold, clinical, and completely soul-less.
"Absolute garbage," Penelope muttered to herself.
She tied her apron tightly around her waist, grabbed a notepad, and began raiding the pantry. She found imported olive oil, sea salt, dried herbs, and a sack of high-protein flour.
At 7:45 AM, Salvatore Moretti shuffled into the kitchen leaning on his mahogany cane. He looked tired, his eyes heavy with sleep, but the moment he saw Penelope standing behind the marble counter with flour dusting her full cheeks and arms, his face transformed.
"Buon giornu, cara mia!" Salvatore called out, his voice instantly brightening the vast room.
"Buon giornu, Don Salvatore," Penelope greeted him, using the respectful title with a warm smile. "Sit down. I am making fresh frottole and dark espresso."
Salvatore practically skipped over to a wooden stool at the island, leaning his chin on his hands like a young boy. "Frottole? Real Sicilian fried dough with lemon honey?"
"With fresh lemon zest," Penelope confirmed, dropping the small dough rounds into a skillet of hot oil.
As the sweet, golden aroma filled the kitchen, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Dominic stepped into the room. He was dressed in a pristine charcoal three-piece suit, a dark tie neatly knotted at his collar. He looked fully prepared to handle a multi-million-dollar board meeting, but his eyes swept straight past his father and landed on Penelope.
He stopped in his tracks.
Penelope was dusting the fried dough with powdered sugar, a strand of her dark hair escaping her messy bun and curling softly against her neck. The morning sun pouring through the tall kitchen windows caught the rich curve of her hip against the counter, framing her in a warm, golden light.
Dominic’s throat clicked as he swallowed hard.
"Good morning," Dominic said, his deep voice interrupting the sizzle of the pan.
Salvatore looked between his son and Penelope, a sharp, knowing glint entering the old man’s dark eyes.
"Dominic! Sit down!" Salvatore demanded, slapping the stool beside him. "Eat with your father for once. The girl is making magic."
Dominic hesitated for a fraction of a second before unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting down beside his father. "I have a meeting in Manhattan at nine."
"The meeting can wait ten minutes," Salvatore snapped, grabbing a hot frittola directly from the plate Penelope set down, burning his fingers in the process. He popped it into his mouth and let out a groan of pure delight.
Penelope set a second plate in front of Dominic, along with a small cup of dark, unrefined espresso.
"It isn't on your diet plan, Mr. Moretti," Penelope said softly, offering him a playful, defiant look. "But it won't kill you."
Dominic looked at the golden pastry, then up into Penelope’s brown eyes. He picked up the dough, took a bite, and closed his eyes. The crunch of the crisp crust gave way to a light, airy center sweet with honey and citrus.
When he opened his eyes, he was looking directly at Penelope’s lips.
"It's incredible," Dominic murmured, his voice dropping an octave, making the words sound like an intimate confession. "Thank you, Penelope."
Penelope felt a blush creeping up her chest and neck, turning her skin a soft rose pink. She turned quickly toward the sink to wash her hands, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
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She had come here to cook pasta for an old man.
She hadn't prepared herself for the way the crime boss looked at her when he thought no one was paying attention.
