Chapter 3 - Stepping Into the Lion's Gilded Cage
The Moretti estate was not a home; it was an impenetrable fortress disguised as a palatial Italian renaissance villa.
A high wrought-iron fence topped with razor wire encircled fifty acres of private forest on the outskirts of Lake Forest. Black armored SUVs patrolled the winding perimeter roads, while motion-tracking thermal cameras hummed softly from the tops of stone pillars.
The black Maybach pulled up to the grand front portico just as the first light of dawn cracked through the gray morning clouds.
Marco opened the door, and Dante stepped out first, offering me a gloved hand. I took it, holding Matteo securely against my chest wrapped in a soft cashmere blanket that had been waiting in the car.
The moment we stepped inside the grand foyer, I stopped dead in my tracks.
The floor was polished white Carrara marble, reflecting the light of a massive crystal chandelier that hung from a three-story vaulted ceiling. A grand double staircase curved upward, but what made my breath catch was the life-sized oil painting hanging directly above the landing.
It was Isabella.
She was painted wearing a flowing crimson silk gown, seated on an ornate velvet settee. Her dark hair was piled in an elegant updo, her dark eyes sparkling with intelligence, and that same small dimple visible on her cheek.
Seeing my own face magnified ten feet high, frozen in oils and varnish, sent a violent shiver down my spine.
"Dante! What is the meaning of this madness?"
A sharp, haughty female voice echoed down the marble staircase.
A woman in her early thirties, dressed in an immaculate cream Chanel suit with sharp, aristocratic cheekbones and cold gray eyes, descended the stairs. Behind her trailed two elderly nannies wearing crisp white uniforms, looking thoroughly exhausted.
This was Gianna Moretti, Dante’s younger sister.
Gianna reached the bottom of the stairs, her eyes flashing with anger—until her gaze landed squarely on me.
She froze mid-step. Her face drained of all color, her hand flying to her throat as she stumbled backward against the mahogany handrail. "Dio mio... Isabella?"
"This is Elina," Dante announced coldly, his voice echoing through the vast foyer. "Isabella’s twin sister. She is Matteo's new legal guardian and live-in governess. Her authority regarding my son is absolute, second only to mine."
Gianna recovered quickly, her shock transforming into open hostility and disgust. "A twin? Are you insane, Dante? You pick up some gutter rat off the street who happens to look like your dead wife and hand her the Moretti heir? Have you lost your mind to grief?"
Before I could speak, Dante closed the distance between himself and his sister in two terrifying strides. The air around him turned subzero.
"Choose your next words with extreme care, Gianna," Dante warned, his voice low and deadly. "Elina is the only reason Matteo has eaten a full bottle and slept through the night in nine weeks. You will treat her with the respect befitting a member of this household, or I will have you escorted to our estate in Sicily before noon."
Gianna’s jaw tightened, her hands trembling with suppressed rage. She glared at me, her eyes filled with venomous disdain. "You think you can just waltz into this house and take her place? You have no idea what kind of world you just entered, girl. Blood will have blood."
Without waiting for a response, Gianna spun on her high heels and stormed down the eastern corridor, the sharp clacking of her shoes echoing off the marble.
Dante let out a slow, controlled exhale and turned back to me. "Ignore my sister. She is protective, but bitter."
"She hates me already," I whispered, shifting Matteo in my arms as the boy stirred awake, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists.
"She doesn't hate you," Dante said softly, reaching out to gently stroke Matteo’s cheek with the back of his index finger. "She fears you. Because she knows that looking at you makes it impossible for anyone in this house to forget."
Dante led me up the western wing to the private master quarters. The suite assigned to me was larger than any apartment I had ever lived in, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a snow-dusted rose garden, a plush king-sized bed, a private nursery connected by French double doors, and a walk-in wardrobe already filled with designer clothes tailored precisely to my measurements.
"How did you know my sizes?" I asked, looking around the opulent room in disbelief.
"Marco is thorough," Dante replied simply. "Rest now, Elina. You haven't slept in twenty-four hours. My men are stationed outside your door. You and Matteo are completely safe here."
He turned to leave, but before he crossed the threshold, I called out to him.
"Dante?"
He paused, turning his dark, scarred profile toward me.
"Thank you," I said softly. "For bringing me to him."
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For a fleeting second, the terrifying mafia don looked vulnerable. A microscopic softening touched the corners of his lips before his unyielding mask slammed back into place.
"Get some sleep, Elina," he murmured, and closed the heavy oak door behind him.
