Chapter 4 - Dinner at the Long Table: Whispers, Threats, and Under-the-Table Rescues
The formal dining room of the Moretti estate was designed to intimidate.
A massive, twenty-seat mahogany table stretched down the center of the room, draped in heavy white lace linens, polished silver, and crystal candelabras that flickered with warm, golden light.
Seated around the table were twelve members of the inner family circle—uncles, aunts, cousins, and financial advisers—all watching us with varying degrees of hostility, curiosity, and guarded calculation.
I was seated directly to Luca’s right, flanked by a towering crystal water glass, a silver fork I was terrified of using incorrectly, and a suffocating sense of impending doom.
Across the table sat Julian Moretti—Luca’s cousin and head of West Coast acquisitions—whose smirk had been plastered across his face since the first course was served.
“So, Emma,” Julian drawled, swirling a glass of expensive Barolo wine while staring directly at me.
“Luca tells us you manage his daily schedule. Must be quite a handful, keeping track of all his corporate acquisitions. Tell me, do you also manage his personal calendar? Because knowing our Luca, he doesn't usually have time for romance between hostile takeovers and board meetings.”
The table went quiet.
Every fork paused midway to a plate.
Julian was fishing, trying to expose the seams of our hastily constructed lie, testing whether I actually knew the intimate details of Luca’s life or if I was just a terrified employee reading from a script.
Before I could open my mouth to stutter out a safe, rehearsed corporate response, Luca’s hand slid smoothly under the heavy linen tablecloth.
His warm, calloused fingers found my knee, gripping it firmly in a silent, grounding gesture of absolute reassurance.
“Emma manages my entire life, Julian,” Luca answered smoothly, his dark eyes fixed dead on his cousin across the table.
“She knows every meeting, every contract, and every detail of my daily routine better than I do myself. And unlike certain family members who rely on inherited titles, she actually earns her place at my side.”
Julian’s smile faltered, a dark flush creeping up his neck at the thinly veiled insult regarding his competence.
“I was merely curious, cousin,” Julian muttered, looking down at his plate of roasted duck.
“Curiosity in our family usually gets people into trouble, Julian,” Luca replied quietly, his tone devoid of humor.
“Best leave it be.”
Underneath the table, Luca’s hand didn't leave my knee.
In fact, his thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against my skin through the fabric of my dress, sending a warm, distracting current of electricity straight through my veins.
It was a brilliant psychological maneuver—appearing utterly devoted to me in public while simultaneously keeping me anchored against the mounting hostility of his relatives.
“Tell us about your family, dear,” Aunt Elena chimed in from further down the table, her tone dripping with sickly-sweet condescension.
“Luca tells us nothing about your background. Where are your parents from? What do they do in Ohio?”
My throat tightened.
My parents were honest, hardworking middle-class people—my father taught high school history, and my mother worked as a nurse at a local community clinic.
In the glittering, high-stakes underworld of the Moretti dynasty, my background was practically microscopic.
“My parents live in Dayton,” I said, lifting my chin and trying to keep my voice from trembling.
“My father teaches history, and my mother is a nurse.”
A polite, icy silence greeted my answer.
Uncle Marco let out a low, dry chuckle, shaking his head.
“A teacher and a nurse,” Marco murmured, swirling his wine.
“How delightfully… ordinary. I suppose diversity has its place, even if it’s outside the corporate suite.”
Anger flared hot and sudden in my chest, burning away the residual fear.
I opened my mouth to deliver a sharp, defensive retort about honest labor versus syndicate wealth, but before I could utter a single syllable, Luca’s voice cut through the dining room like a butcher’s knife.
“Watch your tone, Marco,” Luca commanded, his voice dropping into that terrifying, glacial register that made every fork on the table freeze.
Uncle Marco’s head snapped up, his gray eyes widening in genuine shock.
“Luca, I was only—”
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“You were insulting the woman I intend to marry,” Luca interrupted, his dark eyes blazing with cold, unyielding fury.
“Say another word about her background, and you won't be finishing this meal at my table.”
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