Chapter 7 - THE SANCTUARY OF THE MORETTI ESTATE
The sleek, bulletproof black SUV slipped through the rain-slicked gates of an impenetrable stone estate on the outskirts of Long Island. Inside, the leather interior was quiet, save for the hum of the climate control. Lena sat in the backseat, wrapped in Vincent’s jacket, staring blankly out the window as the sprawling, majestic mansion loomed ahead.
She had expected a safehouse—a dingy motel room or a back-alley clinic. Instead, she had been brought to a fortress of gothic architecture, surrounded by towering iron fences and armed security patrols.
When the car came to a smooth halt, the door on her side opened. It wasn't one of the enforcers, but a gentle, middle-aged woman with silver-streaked hair and kind, worried eyes—Mrs. Gable, the estate’s head housekeeper.
"Welcome home, Miss Lena," Mrs. Gable said softly, extending a steady hand to help her out without touching her injured arm. "Dr. Vance is already waiting inside."
Inside, the mansion was a breathtaking blend of old-world luxury and modern security. Marble floors reflected crystal chandeliers, and a warm fire crackled in a massive stone hearth in the drawing-room. Within minutes, a private physician with silver temples and a calm demeanor was examining Lena’s arm on a plush velvet sofa.
"It's a clean fracture of the radius and ulna," Dr. Vance announced after taking a series of quick portable X-rays. "It will need to be set immediately, and she'll need a cast for at least eight weeks. There's also severe bruising and signs of chronic physical trauma."
Vincent stood by the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression hardening into stone with every word the doctor spoke. "Do whatever is necessary. Ensure she feels no pain."
As the doctor administered a local anesthetic and began the excruciating process of resetting her bone, Lena bit down hard on a folded towel, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. Suddenly, a large, warm hand covered her uninjured right hand. She looked up through her tear-blurred vision.
Vincent was kneeling beside the sofa, his dark eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that anchored her to reality.
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"You're safe now, Lena," he said, his voice unusually gentle. "No one will ever lay a finger on you again. I give you my word."
For the first time in five years, as the pain began to fade beneath the medicine, Lena actually believed it.
