CHAPTER 7
For three agonizing hours, I stared at the grand plaster ceiling, listening to the heavy silence of the massive estate. Every minor creak of the old wood floor outside made my chest tighten with a fresh wave of anxiety.
The house was completely fortified, but the terrifying shadow of my past still lingered near the edges of my mind. I couldn't unhear Frank's voice explaining the sick contract Marcus had signed behind my back.
At eight o'clock, the door swung open quietly, and a young woman in a sharp grey suit stepped inside carrying a tray. She placed a bowl of warm chicken soup, fresh bread, and a glass of juice on the side table.
"Mr. Moretti requested that you eat something warm, ma'am," she said politely, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered.
"Has there been any news from the city?" I asked eagerly, sitting up slowly while adjusting the heavy sling.
"The boss doesn't like us discussing business with guests," she replied smoothly, arranging the napkin neatly. "But the convoy just pulled back through the main gates five minutes ago. He is downstairs in his study now."
Relief flooded through my chest so hard I almost lost my breath, my hands shaking against the smooth bedsheets. I pushed the covers aside, carefully swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress despite the lingering weakness.
"Ma'am, you should rest," the girl urged, taking a step forward with her hands raised in mild concern.
"I need to see him," I insisted, finding my balance on the soft oriental rug covering the hardwood floor.
She realized I wasn't going to back down, so she offered her arm to help support me as I walked. I was wearing a soft silk robe someone had provided, sliding my feet into comfortable slippers left near the bed.
We walked down a wide, sweeping marble staircase lined with oil paintings of historic New York figures from decades past. Armed guards stood at every corner, bowing their heads respectfully as I passed by them without a word.
The girl led me to a set of massive double mahogany doors at the far end of the ground floor hallway. A thin line of yellow light glowed from beneath the heavy wood, accompanied by the low rumble of Vincent's voice.
I knocked softly, and the heavy door instantly swung inward, revealing a private library lined with thousands of books. A crackling fire burned in a grand stone fireplace, illuminating heavy leather couches and dark mahogany furniture.
Vincent was standing near the fire, holding a crystal glass of whiskey while Frank stood near a massive oak desk. Vincent had removed his tie, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a faint crimson smear on his cuff.
He turned toward the door, his dark eyes instantly locking onto me as I stepped into the warm room.
"Lena," he said, setting his glass down on the mantelpiece before walking over to meet me near the entrance. "You shouldn't be out of bed. Dr. Mercer specifically ordered complete bed rest for the next forty-eight hours."
"I needed to know you were okay," I admitted quietly, looking down at his sleeve where the dark red stain was visible.
Vincent noticed my gaze, casually rolling the sleeve up another notch to hide the mark from my sight.
"It’s not my blood," he said simply, his voice devoid of any boastfulness or hesitation. "The Russian problem in Brighton Beach has been completely solved. They will never disturb anyone in this city ever again."
"And Marcus?" I asked, my voice barely audible as I forced myself to speak the name one last time.
Vincent stepped closer, reaching out to gently cup my face with his large, warm hand, forcing me to look up.
"Marcus has been handed over to federal authorities along with twenty years of recorded financial fraud evidence," Vincent explained. "He will spend the rest of his miserable life inside a maximum-security prison in upstate New York."
A tear slipped past my lashes, but this time it wasn't a tear of pain or terror; it was pure freedom. The heavy iron chain that had bound me for five miserable years had finally been shattered into tiny, meaningless dust.
"Why did you do all this for me?" I asked, looking into his deep brown eyes. "You don't even know me."
Vincent looked down at me for a long moment, his thumb softly tracing the contour of my cheekbone.
"Because six months ago, when you spilled that coffee, you didn't cry for yourself," Vincent said softly. "You apologized for wasting my time, even though your own hand was bruised and shaking under your tray."
May you like
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a tender, intense whisper that made my heart leap in my chest.
"I decided that day that no one would ever make you shake again," he murmured. "Starting tonight, you belong to me."
