Chapter 4 - Inside the Iron Gates
The Moretti estate looked less like a home and more like a medieval fortress transplanted onto the shores of Long Island.
Massive wrought-iron gates, flanked by stone pillars and automated security turrets, swung open automatically as the black SUV approached. We drove up a winding, tree-lined gravel driveway beneath a canopy of ancient oaks, until the mansion finally came into view—a sprawling limestone manor glowing under amber floodlights, surrounded by manicured lawns and armed patrol guards.
When the car stopped in front of the grand double doors, a butler in a crisp black-and-white uniform stepped forward to open my door.
"Welcome to the estate, Miss Cole," the butler said, his expression completely neutral. "Don Bellanti is waiting in the library."
I stepped out, clutching my small canvas duffel bag. My heart was hammering against my ribs, but I forced my shoulders back. I wasn't a diner waitress anymore; I was a protector.
The interior of the mansion was breathtaking—and terrifying. High vaulted ceilings, marble floors that reflected the crystal chandeliers, and priceless oil paintings of stern-faced Italian ancestors lining the dark wood-paneled walls. It was grand, wealthy, and completely devoid of warmth.
The butler led me down a long corridor and pushed open a pair of heavy mahogany doors.
The library was cavernous. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretched upward into the shadows, and a massive marble fireplace crackled with a roaring fire.
Marco Bellanti stood by the window, staring out into the dark gardens. He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only a black vest over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms.
"You came," Marco said quietly, turning around to face me.
"I didn't come for you, Mr. Bellanti," I said, holding my ground near the doorway. "I came for Sophia."
A faint, appreciative smile touched the corners of Marco’s mouth. "Fair enough."
He walked over to a heavy mahogany desk and gestured toward a plush leather armchair by the fire. "Sit, Nina."
"I prefer to stand."
Marco didn't push. He leaned back against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms. "My enforcer briefed you on the security situation?"
"He said rival families are sniffing around," I replied sharply. "Which means you brought a target into a public diner this morning, and now you're bringing me into the crossfire."
"The risk was always there," Marco said, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register. "Vivien’s father—Don Eduardo Romano—has been looking for any leverage he can find since our business ties fractured. He knows Sophia is my only weakness. If he can't control me through a marriage alliance, he'll try to reach me through my daughter."
"And where is she now?" I asked, my anger flaring up. "Locked in a panic room?"
"Upstairs in the east wing," Marco said, his gaze dropping to the floor for a fraction of a second—a rare display of paternal guilt. "She hasn't spoken a word since we got back. She locked her door and won't let the maids in."
I dropped my duffel bag onto the Persian rug. "Show me."
Marco didn't hesitate. He led me up the grand marble staircase, through a labyrinth of silent, heavily guarded corridors, until we stopped in front of a white double door with a small silver nameplate that read Sophia.
"Her door is locked from the inside," Marco murmured, stepping aside. "I tried the master key, but she jammed a chair under the handle."
I walked up to the door and pressed my ear against the wood. Complete silence. Not even the sound of breathing.
"Step back, Mr. Bellanti," I commanded softly.
Marco frowned, but he obeyed, stepping back five paces.
I didn't knock. Knocking demands an answer, and right now, Sophia didn't have any answers to give.
Instead, I slid down the wall until I was sitting flat on the hardwood floor, right outside her door. I pulled my knees up to my chest, mirroring the exact posture she had used under table six at the diner.
"Hey, kiddo," I called out, keeping my voice soft, casual, and completely devoid of authority. "The cook at Hal’s Diner sends his regards. He says if you don't come back soon to finish your pancakes, he's going to feed them to the trucker, and you know how gross Frank's table manners are."
Inside the room, a faint, metallic scrape echoed against the wood.
Marco stiffened, his hand instinctively dropping toward the holster beneath his vest. I raised a single hand, signaling him to stay back.
Slowly, the door clicked.
An inch of light appeared in the dark gap. Then two inches.
A pair of dark, cautious eyes peered out from the crack, looking down at me sitting on the floor in my yellow apron and worn sneakers.
"He... he didn't really give them to Frank, did he?" Sophia whispered.
"Not yet," I smiled gently, keeping my hands resting loosely in my lap. "But the clock is ticking. Are you going to let a trucker win, or are we going to go downstairs and negotiate a better breakfast menu?"
Sophia stared at me for three long seconds. Then, slowly, she pulled the door all the way open.
She was still wearing her blue sneakers. One lace was still untied.
"You have yellow on your shirt," she noted, pointing a small finger at my apron.
"It's my uniform," I said. "Though I'm thinking of upgrading to something with more pockets."
Sophia’s lips twitched upward into the tiniest, fragile hint of a smile. She looked past me, catching sight of Marco standing down the hall like a statue of anxiety. Then she looked back at me.
"Can we eat pancakes in the library?" she asked.
May you like
I stood up, dusting off my jeans, and offered her my hand.
"Sophia," I said, "in this house, we can do whatever we want."
