Chapter 2 - The Moretti Estate
"I can't go with you," I said, taking a step back, my heart pounding against my ribs. "I don't know you."
The bodyguards shifted uncomfortably, eyeing me as if I were insane. Nobody refused Vincent Moretti. Nobody questioned him.
Vincent didn't get angry. He didn't raise his voice. He simply looked down at his son.
Noah was clutching my hand even tighter now, his small knuckles turning white. He looked up at me with wide, panicked eyes, shaking his head frantically.
"If you walk away, Maya," Vincent said quietly, his voice laced with a strange, dark heavy truth, "he will slip right back into the dark. Look at him. He chose you tonight. I am offering you a warm place to sleep, food, safety, and a job as my son's personal companion. Name your price."
"I don't have a price," I said defensively, my pride flaring despite my shivering body. "I didn't help him for money."
"I know," Vincent replied, taking a step closer, his towering frame blocking the bitter wind. "That is precisely why you are the only person I trust with him right now. Please."
The word please sounded strange coming from a man like him—unnatural, heavy, and wrung from the very depths of his soul.
I looked down at Noah. The little boy was staring up at me, his lip trembling. “Will you leave?” he had asked me earlier. I had promised him I wouldn't.
I let out a long, shaky sigh, white steam rising from my lips. "Fine. But I am not a prisoner."
"You are a guest," Vincent corrected, gesturing toward the open door of the center SUV. "After you."
The ride to the Moretti estate was filled with a heavy, tense silence.
I sat in the plush leather back seat of the climate-controlled SUV. The blast of warm air hitting my frozen skin sent sharp, painful prickles through my fingers and toes. Noah sat right beside me, leaning his small body against my hip, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He refused to let go of my sleeve.
Vincent sat across from us on the facing bench, holding a sleek glass tumbler of amber scotch. He didn't drink it. He just sat in the dim interior light, his dark grey eyes fixed entirely on me. He was analyzing me, taking in my tangled dark hair, my pale skin, my threadbare clothes, and the quiet dignity I tried desperately to maintain despite my poverty.
Forty minutes later, the convoy pulled off the main highway and passed through massive iron gates guarded by armed men and high-definition security cameras.
The Moretti estate was a massive, gothic limestone mansion nestled in the rolling hills of Lake Forest. It was grand, intimidating, and surrounded by dense evergreen trees.
When the SUV pulled up to the front steps, a tall, elderly woman in a stiff black dress stepped out of the grand double doors. This was Mrs. Vance, the head housekeeper. Beside her stood Gabriel, the scar-necked chief of security I had seen at the parking lot.
"Mr. Moretti," Mrs. Vance said stiffly, her cold blue eyes darting from Vincent to me. She took in my worn boots and dirt-smudged face with immediate, unmistakable disgust. "You found Master Noah. Thank God. But... who is this girl?"
"This is Maya," Vincent said, stepping out of the vehicle and reaching back to help Noah down. Noah refused to budge until I stepped out first. "She will be staying in the guest wing adjoining Noah's quarters. Prepare a hot bath, a warm meal, and fresh clothes for her immediately."
Mrs. Vance’s eyebrows shot up. "Sir? She looks like a vagrant off the streets. We don't know her background, her references—"
"Her reference," Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping into a lethal, icy register that made Mrs. Vance flinch, "is that my son spoke his first words in two years to her tonight. Do you require any further credentials, Mrs. Vance?"
The housekeeper went pale. She bowed her head quickly. "No, Mr. Moretti. Forgive me. Right this way, Miss Maya."
I was led up a sweeping marble staircase, down a wide hallway lined with oil paintings and heavy velvet drapes, and into a bedroom that was larger than any apartment I had ever seen. A massive four-poster bed sat in the center, wrapped in silk sheets and thick feather duvets. A roaring fire crackled in the stone fireplace.
Through an adjoining door was Noah’s room—a vast nursery filled with expensive wooden toys, books, and a small bed.
"Eat first," Vincent said, stepping into the doorway. A servant followed him, carrying a tray loaded with roasted chicken, warm vegetable soup, fresh bread, and fruit.
The smell of real food made my stomach growl audibly. I flushed with embarrassment, dropping my eyes.
Vincent didn't laugh. His expression remained soft, almost gentle. "Take your time, Maya. Nobody will disturb you tonight."
He turned to leave, but Noah ran over, grabbing his father's coat. Noah pointed at me, then pointed at his own bed.
Vincent looked at me, an unspoken request in his eyes.
"I'll stay until he falls asleep," I said quietly, stepping toward the little boy.
An hour later, after I had washed the grime of the streets from my skin in a deep marble tub and dressed in a pair of soft cotton pajamas Mrs. Vance had reluctantly provided, I sat on the edge of Noah’s bed.
The little boy was tucked beneath his covers, holding his stuffed bear, his eyes heavy. I ran my fingers gently through his dark hair, humming a quiet, soft melody my grandmother used to sing to me.
Within minutes, his breathing slowed into a deep, peaceful rhythm.
I quietly stood up and slipped out of his room, closing the door halfway.
As I turned around in the quiet hallway, I saw a tall figure standing in the shadows near the balcony.
Vincent was leaning against the stone balustrade, holding a fresh glass of scotch, watching me. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, accentuating the deep exhaustion lingering around his eyes.
"He hasn't slept through the night without screaming in two years," Vincent murmured, his deep voice cutting through the quiet house.
I walked over to the balcony rail, stopping a safe distance away. "He’s deeply traumatized, Mr. Moretti. He’s carrying a weight no seven-year-old should ever have to bear."
Vincent took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes fixing on the dark forest outside. "He misses his mother."
"I know," I whispered. "I lost my parents when I was nineteen. An apartment fire... took everything. My home, my family, my savings. That’s how I ended up on the streets. Trauma doesn't just hurt, Mr. Moretti. It makes you feel completely invisible to the rest of the world."
Vincent turned his head slowly, looking at me with a profound, quiet intensity. He saw right through the defensive walls I had built up. He saw the pain, the resilience, and the pure, untouched goodness inside me.
"You aren't invisible anymore, Maya," Vincent said softly.
May you like
His voice carried a strange, possessive warmth that sent a sudden, thrilling shiver down my spine.
"Go to sleep," Vincent added, stepping closer and gently touching my shoulder. His hand was large, hot, and solid through the cotton of my shirt. "You're safe here now. I promise you that."
