Chapter 7 - The Drawing Room and the Patriarch’s Warning
The drawing room of the Moretti estate was bathed in the warm, amber glow of a massive stone fireplace, where logs crackled softly beneath an ornate marble mantel.
Seated in a high-backed leather armchair near the hearth was Don Lorenzo Moretti, looking like an ancient king holding court over a crumbling empire.
As Luca and I entered the room, arm in arm, the desultory conversations among the remaining family members died down instantly.
Uncle Marco was standing near the window, swirling his scotch, while Aunt Elena sat on a velvet settee, her eyes sharp and critical.
Julian stood leaning against the bookshelf, nursing his drink with that infuriating, self-satisfied smirk still lingering on his lips.
“You called for me, Grandfather,” Luca said, his voice smooth and controlled as we stopped a few feet from the old man’s chair.
Don Lorenzo lifted his heavy white head, his milky eyes squinting up at us through thick bifocals.
He didn't look at Luca.
Instead, his gaze locked directly onto me, studying me with the cold, assessing detachment of a man who had survived half a century of syndicate wars by accurately measuring his enemies.
“So,” the patriarch rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across pavement.
“This is the girl who has managed to capture the attention of Moretti Holdings’ ruthless CEO.”
I forced myself to stand tall, keeping my chin lifted and my shoulders back, refusing to shrink under the weight of his historic intimidation.
“Good evening, Mr. Moretti,” I said clearly, keeping my tone respectful yet entirely unyielding.
A faint, dry chuckle rattled in the old man’s chest.
“Mr. Moretti,” he repeated, a wry smile touching his thin lips.
“She calls me Mr. Moretti. Not Don Lorenzo, not Grandfather. Just Mr. Moretti. Formal. Distant. Careful.”
He leaned forward, resting his gnarled hands on the head of his ebony cane.
“You have courage, child. I’ll give you that. It takes a very particular kind of fool to walk into this house on Christmas Eve pretending to be Luca’s heart when everyone in this room knows the board already voted to approve the merger with the Rossi family syndicate next month.”
The blood drained entirely from my face.
The Rossi family syndicate.
The name dropped like a tactical bomb into the center of the drawing room.
I froze, my gaze darting instantly sideways to look at Luca.
His face had gone completely rigid.
The mask of calm composure was gone, replaced by a dark, frozen fury so intense it made the air around him feel dangerously heavy.
“The board voted on nothing without my authorization, Grandfather,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet snarl.
“The Rossi merger was rejected six weeks ago.”
Uncle Marco stepped away from the window, his expression smug and unbothered.
“Not by the senior partners, nephew,” Marco corrected smoothly.
“Your father left provisions in the holding trust before he passed away—provisions granting the council of elders veto power over your personal life if you failed to secure an approved syndicate alliance by your thirty-fifth birthday. Which, as we all know, was last week.”
Silence swallowed the room whole.
I stared at Luca in stunned horror.
All of this—the Westchester estate, the family pressure, the arranged matches, the sudden demand that I play his fake girlfriend—it wasn't just a holiday inconvenience.
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It was a desperate, high-stakes rebellion against an institutional trap his own family had laid for him.
And I had walked straight into the crossfire.
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