Chapter 3 - The Price of Protection
The penthouse at the top of the Moretti Grand was less of an apartment and more of a fortress suspended two thousand feet above Manhattan.
The glass walls revealed a sprawling panorama of the city lights glittering below like scattered embers. The floors were black volcanic slate; the furniture was minimalist, dark velvet and polished bronze. It felt devoid of human warmth, a command center for a king who trusted nothing and no one.
A silver tray with two crystal tumblers of amber scotch sat on a low marble table. Lorenzo took off his charcoal suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of an armchair, and unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves. On his left forearm, a dark, intricate tattoo twisted out from beneath his watch—a serpentine dragon curling around an ancient dagger.
I remained standing near the window, my arms crossed over my ribs, watching him like a caged animal watches a handler.
“Drink,” he said, nodding toward the glass. “You look like you’re ready to sprint through the glass.”
“I’d prefer to keep my mind sharp,” I replied coldly. “Men who offer salvation usually bring an invoice twice as high as the problem.”
Lorenzo poured himself a glass, took a sip, and smiled faintly. “Smart girl. Your grandmother was the same way. Evelyn Hayes was the only person in this state who could look my grandfather in the eye and make him renegotiate a steel contract.”
“You knew my grandmother?”
“She did business with the Morettis for forty years,” he said, setting the glass down. “She was ruthless, brilliant, and fiercely protective of you. She knew what your mother was. Meredith was born with champagne tastes and zero work ethic, constantly chasing the approval of high-society matrons who mocked her behind her back. Evelyn knew that if Meredith or Chloe got their hands on the family’s real assets, they’d hand them over to the first slick con artist who flashed an Ivy League smile.”
“Enter Ethan Prescott,” I said bitterly.
“Enter Ethan Prescott,” Lorenzo agreed. He walked over to a massive mahogany desk, picked up a thick manila folder, and dropped it onto the glass table with a heavy slap. “Ethan’s father left Prescott Investments in shambles. Three years ago, Ethan was on the verge of bankruptcy. He didn't propose to you out of love, Scarlet. He proposed because he knew you were the sole inheritor of the Hayes commercial holdings.”
I stepped toward the table, drawn by the morbid need to see the evidence of my own gullibility. I opened the folder.
Photocopies of bank transfers. Offshore shell company registrations in the Cayman Islands. Surveillance photos of Ethan meeting with men in unmarked tracksuits in alleyways behind waterfront warehouses. And a legal document, dated two months prior, outlining a petition for conservatorship over me on grounds of severe psychological distress.
My mother’s signature was on the petition.
My knees nearly gave out. I braced myself against the table, the black-and-white ink blurring before my eyes.
“She signed it,” I whispered. My voice broke, a jagged edge catching in my throat. “My own mother signed a paper to have me committed so Ethan could take my inheritance.”
Lorenzo was beside me in an instant. He didn't patronize me with fake sympathy. He didn't put an arm around me to coddle me. He gripped the edge of the table next to my hands, his broad frame a solid, unshakeable wall at my back.
“They didn't just betray you, Scarlet,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into that dark, venomous register that made the room temperature drop. “They orchestrated an assassination of your life. The affair with your sister? It was designed to trigger an emotional meltdown in public. They wanted you to scream, to smash things, to make threats. Ethan had private investigators documenting your reaction to prove you were unstable.”
A horrifying chill swept through me. I remembered finding them in my bed. I remembered the absolute shock, the screaming match, the way Ethan had calmly recorded me on his phone while I threw a picture frame against the wall.
He had been collecting evidence.
And tonight at Bellini's, the smug little dinner party had been designed to be the final straw. If I had flipped the table, if I had thrown wine in Chloe’s face, if I had collapsed in tears—Ethan’s attorneys would have filed the conservatorship papers before the courts closed tomorrow morning.
“Instead,” I murmured, turning to Lorenzo, “I claimed you were my boyfriend.”
“And by doing so, you threw a grenade into their entire operation,” Lorenzo said, his eyes glittering. “Because Ethan knows who I am. He knows that if I step between him and your estate, his cartel backers won't just fire him. They will feed him to the fish in the East River to cut their losses.”
“So what now?” I asked, staring at the documents. “You said there was a condition in Evelyn’s trust. I have to be married.”
Lorenzo picked up his scotch, swirling the amber liquid. “Evelyn was old-fashioned. She believed that a woman with that much wealth needed a husband to act as a public shield against predators. A foolish notion, perhaps, but legally binding. Under the trust terms, if you are not married by your twenty-seventh birthday—which is precisely thirty days from today—the conservatorship default triggers, and the secondary trustee takes control.”
“Chloe,” I said, the name like acid on my tongue.
“Exactly. Ethan marries Chloe, Chloe claims the trust, Ethan pays his debt, and your mother gets her country club dues paid for the rest of her life. You get locked in a private sanitarium in Vermont.”
The sheer scope of their malice took my breath away. It wasn't just heartbreak; it was a premeditated robbery of my life, my freedom, and my sanity.
“You said you wanted a trade,” I looked directly into Lorenzo’s eyes. “What is your price?”
Lorenzo set his glass down. He took one step closer, invading my personal space until the scent of his cologne filled my senses.
“Marry me, Scarlet.”
The words hung in the air like an electric charge.
“A business arrangement,” he continued without missing a beat. “A contractual marriage of convenience. We sign a mutual defense agreement. You retain one hundred percent of your grandmother’s real estate assets, but you lease the harbor docks exclusively to Moretti Maritime for ninety-nine years. In return, you get the full weight of the Moretti name, my legal army, and my protection. Ethan Prescott won't be able to touch a single cent. And your family will watch from the sidelines as you take everything they ever wanted.”
I studied his face. He was lethally handsome, commanding, and infinitely more dangerous than Ethan could ever hope to be.
“And what happens when Ethan tries to fight back?” I asked. “He’s cornered. Cornered rats bite.”
Lorenzo reached out, his thumb catching a stray lock of hair that had fallen across my forehead, tucking it behind my ear with an intimacy that sent a shiver racing down my spine.
“A cornered rat bites,” Lorenzo agreed, his voice a low, terrifying promise. “Until you step on its neck. Say the word, Scarlet. Let me step on his neck for you.”
I looked at the documents on the table. I saw the ghost of the girl who had loved Ethan Prescott, the girl who had tried to earn her mother’s affection by being quiet, sweet, and compliant.
That girl was dead. Ethan and Meredith had killed her in that restaurant.
I reached out my hand.
“Get your lawyers to draft the contract, Mr. Moretti,” I said. “On one condition.”
Lorenzo’s lips curved into a wicked, breathtaking smile. “Name it.”
“I don’t want them just stopped,” I said, my voice hardening into steel. “I want them broke, disgraced, and begging for mercy on their knees.”
Lorenzo took my hand, lifting it to his lips, kissing my knuckles with a courtly, lethal reverence.
May you like
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, his eyes burning into mine, “that wasn’t a condition. That was my baseline guarantee.”
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