Chapter 10 - The Edge of the Storm
The afternoon sun broke through the heavy gray clouds, casting long, golden beams across the wet stones of the garden below.
Down in the courtyard, two sleek black town cars were parked side by side near the fountain.
One was running, its trunk open, prepared to take me and my mother to the private hangar at O’Hare International Airport. A one-way ticket to a life of peace, safety, and wealth—a life where no one would ever shove me, threaten my family, or drag me into a war between mob syndicates.
The other car was Luca’s armored Maybach, waiting to take him downtown to the Moretti Tower, where the heads of every remaining syndicate in the Midwest were gathering for an emergency summit.
A summit to declare who ruled the city.
I stood by the window in the master bedroom, dressed in a sharp, ivory wool coat over dark trousers. My ankle was still strapped in its sleek brace, but I was standing upright, without the cane, bearing my own weight on the solid earth.
Bruno sat beside me, his heavy head resting against my hip, his warm, steady presence a constant anchor.
The door clicked open.
Luca walked in. He had returned to his armor—a sharp, midnight-blue three-piece suit, his gold cufflinks catching the afternoon sun, his expression calm, imposing, and completely unreadable.
He didn't carry a weapon in his hands, but the weight of his power clung to him like a shadow.
He stopped five paces away from me. He looked at my coat. He looked at the leather travel bag sitting on the bench by the foot of the bed.
For the first time since I had met him, a flicker of vulnerability crossed Luca Moretti’s eyes.
A momentary crack in the marble.
“The driver is waiting, Emma,” Luca said, his voice quiet, devoid of his usual commanding force. “The flight plan is filed. You will be in New York before dusk.”
I looked down at the velvet box sitting on the windowsill. The platinum keycard gleamed in the sunlight. Next to it lay the teardrop emerald necklace he had given me the night before.
I turned to face him fully.
“You gave me a ticket out,” I said, my voice steady, carrying an authority I hadn't known I possessed two days ago. “Most men like you would have locked the doors. You would have made the choice for me.”
Luca took a slow step forward, his hands resting lightly in his trouser pockets.
“I don't cage things I value,” he murmured. “If you stay with me, Emma, it must be because you choose the fire. Not because you were trapped in it.”
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the distant west—the promise of another Chicago storm rolling across the plains.
A phone buzzed sharply on the desk behind Luca.
He didn't look at it, but Marco’s voice echoed through the open door from the hallway.
“Boss! It’s the commission from New York. They’re calling about the Rossi arrests. They want to know if the Moretti family is standing alone, or if the alliance is fractured.”
Luca held my gaze. He didn't answer Marco. He didn't move an inch.
The silence between us stretched, humming with raw electricity, suspended between two completely different destinies.
One was a quiet apartment overlooking Central Park, peaceful mornings, and an ordinary life where my heart would never beat in terror again.
The other was the throne of a city on the brink of war, standing beside a man whose hands were stained with blood, but whose heart beat only for me.
I looked at the emerald necklace on the windowsill.
Slowly, I reached out, my fingers wrapping around the cool, heavy platinum chain.
I picked it up.
Luca’s breath caught in his throat. His dark eyes widened slightly, tracking every movement of my hands as I walked past him toward the full-length mirror.
I stopped in front of the glass, lifting the heavy stone toward my throat.
“Luca,” I said softly, meeting his intense, burning gaze in the reflection.
He stepped up behind me, his large, warm hands gently replacing mine, taking the chain from my fingers. His knuckles brushed against the sensitive skin of my neck, sending a shiver of pure electricity racing straight down my spine.
With slow, deliberate reverence, Luca fastened the emerald around my neck.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, his breath hot against my skin as his hands rested heavily on my shoulders, claiming me in the mirror.
“Tell Marco to answer the phone,” I whispered, looking straight into the eyes of the man who had burned an empire for me. “And tell New York that the Moretti family is not standing alone.”
Luca’s mouth curled into a dark, devastating smile—the look of a king who had just conquered the world.
May you like
He turned toward the door, taking my hand in his, our fingers interlacing with an iron grip that nothing in Chicago could ever break.
Together, we stepped out onto the threshold, heading straight into the gathering storm.
