Chapter 7 - The Gates of Oyster Bay
The Moretti estate in Oyster Bay sat on a private peninsula overlooking the Long Island Sound, shielded from prying eyes by iron gates six feet high and a perimeter of dense pine trees.
As Alessandro’s Mercedes-Maybach approached the wrought-iron gates, two armed guards stepped out from the security booth, their hands resting casually near the holsters beneath their jackets. One of them peered into the driver’s side window, then froze as he recognized Alessandro sitting in the back.
The heavy gates swung open immediately.
"He’s nervous," Sophie whispered, looking out the tinted window as the car wound its way up the long, gravel driveway toward a massive limestone mansion that looked straight out of the Gilded Age.
"Victor is always nervous," Alessandro replied, his face carved from stone. He reached over, resting his hand casually over hers, his thumb brushing against the heavy diamond ring on her finger. "Remember your cover. You are Sophie Dubois, daughter of Julien Dubois, newly arrived from Paris, and my intended bride. If my uncle or any of his capos ask you about your family, you smile, you look bored, and you let me do the talking."
"And if they ask about the wine?" Sophie asked quietly.
A faint, cold smile touched Alessandro’s lips. "Then you act like a snob. They respect arrogance far more than honesty."
The car glided to a halt beneath the grand stone portico of the mansion. Viktor was out of the passenger seat in a heartbeat, pulling open Alessandro’s door, while a valet rushed forward to open Sophie’s side.
When Sophie stepped out onto the cobblestones, the crisp salt air from the Sound hit her face. The mansion doors opened wide, spilling warm, golden light across the steps. Standing in the grand foyer, flanked by four hulking bodyguards and two elderly, sharp-eyed men in expensive suits, was Victor Moretti.
Victor was in his late sixties, with thinning gray hair combed slickly back, a tailored navy suit, and eyes like chips of flint. He looked enough like Alessandro to be his father, but where Alessandro was polished steel, Victor was rusted iron—brutal, unyielding, and desperate to hold onto power.
"Nephew," Victor boomed, his voice echoing off the marble pillars of the foyer. He stepped forward, spreading his arms in a gesture of false familial warmth. "You finally arrived. And you brought company."
Alessandro stepped up beside Sophie, his hand sliding smoothly around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. The touch was possessive, deliberate, and entirely convincing.
"Uncle," Alessandro said, his tone dripping with polite venom. "Allow me to introduce my fiancée, Sophie Dubois."
Victor stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes snapped from Alessandro’s face down to Sophie, scanning her custom Yves Saint Laurent gown, the diamond studs in her ears, and the massive emerald-cut ring sparkling on her left hand.
"Fiancée?" Victor repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. He took a slow step closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face. "Dubois? From Paris? I wasn't aware you frequented French social circles, nephew. Especially circles belonging to a disgraced art broker like Julien Dubois."
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The temperature in the foyer dropped to zero. Sophie’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced her expression into a cool, bored mask, lifting her chin with aristocratic disdain.
"My father’s business failures in Paris have nothing to do with my pedigree, Mr. Moretti," Sophie said, her voice clear, musical, and utterly unflappable. "Unless, of course, your family’s grasp of high society is as limited as your manners."
