Chapter 3 - The Verdict Behind Locked Doors
The private study of Don Salvatore Moretti was a room where death warrants were signed and alliances were bought.
Its walls were covered in dark walnut paneling that swallowed sound, creating a heavy, suffocating silence.
Portraits of past Moretti patriarchs glared down from the high walls, their painted eyes cold and unforgiving.
Vincent opened the heavy double doors, motioned Luna inside, and pulled the doors shut behind her.
The click of the brass latch sounded like the chamber of a revolver locking into place.
Behind an immense mahogany desk sat Don Salvatore, looking frail and worn in his velvet armchair.
Six months after his massive heart attack, the once-imposing mob boss was now a shadow of his former self.
His skin held an ashen gray undertone, and his bony hands trembled slightly as they rested on the blotter.
Yet despite his failing body, his dark eyes remained sharp, piercing through Luna like twin daggers.
Standing beside the desk in absolute stillness was Luca Moretti.
He wore a bespoke black tuxedo that accentuated his broad, powerful shoulders and tall frame.
His hands were casually clasped behind his back, but his posture held the tension of a coiled viper.
He did not look at Luna when she entered, keeping his gaze fixed on the rain pattering against the dark window.
“Luna,” Don Salvatore spoke, his voice thin but commanding respect through pure willpower.
“Good evening, Don Salvatore,” she murmured, keeping her eyes fixed on the antique Persian rug.
“You have lived beneath my roof for three full years now,” the old man continued slowly.
“Yes, sir.”
“In those three years, the security cameras have never captured you snooping through confidential folders.”
“You have never gossiped about what you overheard while dusting the council room.”
“You are quiet, fiercely diligent, and loyal to the bread you eat.”
Don Salvatore leaned forward, resting his sharp elbows on the desk.
“In our world, Luna, such qualities are rarer than flawless diamonds.”
Luna remained completely still, wondering where this terrifying conversation was leading.
“Tonight, my son must take a wife from among our peers,” the Don stated flatly.
“The mobsters downstairs believe they can force my hand because my heart is dying.”
“They dangle their pampered daughters and their dirty money in front of Luca like bait on a hook.”
“They think a marriage alliance will guarantee peace between our bloodlines.”
The old man scoffed, a dry, rattling cough escaping his chest before he regained control.
“They are fools.”
“A wife from an allied family is not a partner; she is a licensed spy sleeping in your bed.”
“She will run to her father the moment blood is spilled, and she will poison your coffee when her family demands it.”
Don Salvatore turned his head slightly toward his son.
“Tradition often blinds men to the true gold standing quietly right before their eyes.”
Luna’s heart began hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She dared to raise her eyes from the carpet, catching Luca’s gaze in the dim light of the study.
The cold, detached mafia heir was staring directly at her.
There was no arrogance in his green eyes, only an unbearable intensity that made her breath hitch.
She saw exhaustion, raw hunger, and an unspoken promise burning beneath the surface.
“You may return to your duties, Luna,” Don Salvatore said abruptly, waving his hand toward the door.
“The performance downstairs will begin shortly.”
Luna curtsied clumsily, her knees trembling so badly she could barely keep her balance.
She turned toward the heavy mahogany doors, eager to escape the suffocating tension in the room.
“Luna.”
The low, commanding voice belonged to Luca.
She froze with her hand hovering over the cold brass doorknob and turned slowly around.
Luca had stepped away from his father’s desk, walking toward her with measured, deliberate strides.
He stopped just two feet away, towering over her small frame.
His eyes dropped to her hands, noticing the small smudge of red blood on her torn white apron.
A flicker of lethal fury crossed his handsome face before he masked it with absolute control.
“You look stunning tonight,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her ears.
“You always do, mi paloma.”
The gentle Spanish pet name hit Luna like an electric shock, sending warmth rushing to her face.
She swallowed hard, whispered a frantic thank you, and pulled the door open, escaping into the corridor.
Outside, she pressed her back against the cold stone wall, pressing a hand against her pounding heart.
Why had the dying Don evaluated her loyalty so carefully?
And why had Luca called her his dove right under his father’s watchful eyes?
May you like
The questions swirled through her mind, but there was no time to search for sensible answers.
The music in the ballroom was swelling to a crescendo, signaling that the hour of judgment had arrived.
