Chapter 2 - At least, she hoped they did not.
Unless the Morettis believed Clara had seen something she should not have seen.
Unless they thought she had somehow harmed Isabella during those chaotic minutes on the restaurant floor.
The SUV accelerated.
Seattle’s lights disappeared behind them as forest roads replaced the city.
Clara Vance had spent the evening worrying about rent and medical bills.
Now she was being taken into the center of the Moretti family’s world without knowing whether she had been invited as a guest or brought there as a prisoner.
The vehicle finally stopped before a wrought-iron gate that looked like the entrance to purgatory.
Beyond it stood the Moretti estate.
It was less a house than a fortress designed to resemble a Tuscan villa.
The property occupied a cliff above the Pacific Ocean, isolated from the city, beautiful and deeply intimidating.
Clara was escorted through the main entrance.
Her boots struck marble that probably cost more than everything she had earned in her life.
The mansion was almost completely silent.
It was the kind of silence that felt like a held breath.
She was led into a library filled with the smells of old books, brandy, and gun oil.
A fire burned in the hearth.
Thousands of books covered the walls.
Lorenzo stood at a window overlooking the black ocean, holding a tumbler of amber liquor.
The guards closed the heavy oak doors behind Clara.
She was alone with him.
“You live a long way from your job, Miss Vance,” Lorenzo said without turning.
“I live where I can afford.”
Clara raised her chin despite the trembling in her legs.
“Why am I here? Am I being arrested or executed?”
Lorenzo turned.
Firelight caught the sharp structure of his face, the scar through his left eyebrow, and the darkness in his eyes.
He took a sip from the glass.
“If I wanted you dead, you never would have awakened.”
He crossed to a large desk.
A file lay there.
Lorenzo picked it up and tossed it across the polished wood.
“Open it.”
Clara hesitated.
Then she did.
Her breath stopped.
The folder contained her entire life.
A copy of her birth certificate.
Her high school transcripts.
Her unfinished nursing-school records.
Sarah’s medical records from St. Jude’s Hospital.
Overdue electricity notices.
Even the eviction warning Clara had hidden from her mother.
“You investigated me.”
The invasion felt almost physical.
“I investigate everyone who touches my family,” Lorenzo said.
He walked around the desk until he stood directly in front of her.
He was approximately 6 inches taller.
“Clara Vance. Top of your class in nursing school. Dropped out 6 months ago.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“You can read. You know why.”
Clara closed the file.
“Tuition or dialysis. I couldn’t pay for both.”
“So you chose your mother.”
Lorenzo’s expression remained unreadable.
“Noble. And stupid.”
“Loving someone isn’t stupid.”
“It is when it leaves you destitute and working for a man like Henderson.”
Lorenzo leaned against the desk and folded his arms.
“Here is the situation, Clara. My mother is difficult.”
Clara said nothing.
“She does not trust doctors. She does not trust hospitals. She believes hospitals are places where people go to die.”
He paused.
“Since what happened at the restaurant, she has refused to allow any of my private medical staff near her. She says they are cold and soulless.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“She asked for the girl.”
Clara blinked.
“The girl with the sad eyes who broke her ribs.”
“She wants me?”
“She insists on you. She says you have good hands.”
Lorenzo gave the faintest indication of disbelief.
“I do not believe in such nonsense. But I believe in keeping my mother alive. Her condition is stable but fragile. She needs 24-hour monitoring for the next month.”
“I’m not a registered nurse. I didn’t finish my degree.”
“I don’t care about the paper.”
Lorenzo moved closer.
“I saw what you did in the restaurant. You remained calm while trained men panicked.”
He entered her personal space.
Clara caught the scent of sandalwood.
“I am offering you a job.”
“I had a job.”
“I’m offering you a better one.”
Lorenzo’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“You will live here. You will watch Isabella. You will make sure she takes her medication and eats properly.”
He paused.
“In exchange, I will pay your mother’s entire debt at St. Jude’s.”
Clara stared at him.
“All $42,000.”
Her breathing changed.
“I will also pay for a private nurse to visit your mother at her apartment twice every day, so you do not have to worry about her while you’re here.”
Lorenzo continued.
“And I will pay you $10,000 a month.”
The room seemed to move around Clara.
It was the answer to every prayer she had whispered during the previous 2 years.
Her mother’s care.
The debt.
A real income.
Freedom from the constant mathematics of survival.
But the offer came from Lorenzo Moretti.
Freedom could also be a trap.
“And if I say no?”
His face did not change.
The room somehow seemed colder.
“Then you walk out that door. You return to your eviction notice. Your mother’s treatment stops next week when the credit runs out. And I find someone else to force my mother to cooperate.”
He held Clara’s gaze.
“It’s your choice. Pride or survival.”
He knew exactly where to strike.
Clara understood what he was.
But the monster in front of her was also offering the only lifeline she had.
“I have conditions.”
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow.
He looked almost amused.
“You are in no position to negotiate.”
“I want to see my mother every weekend. And I want half the money up front, deposited into her account, so I know you’re telling the truth.”
Lorenzo stared at Clara for several long seconds.
Then the corner of his mouth moved slightly.
A ghost of a smile.
“Done.”
He extended his hand.
“Welcome to the family, Miss Vance.”
Clara took it.
His palm was warm and rough.
The contact sent an unexpected charge through her.
She had accepted the deal.
She had stepped willingly into Lorenzo Moretti’s world.
Now she could only hope she would survive long enough for the money to matter.
3 weeks passed.
By then, Clara had begun to understand exactly what it meant to live inside the Moretti stronghold.
The phrase golden cage was accurate.
Her bedroom was larger than the entire East Pillars apartment she shared with Sarah. It had a balcony overlooking the cliffs. Meals were prepared by a Michelin-starred chef. The sheets were silk.
There were also armed guards stationed at every exit and cameras covering every hallway.
Isabella Moretti, however, turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant.
Away from the restaurant and public scrutiny, she was warm, sharp-witted, and extraordinarily stubborn.
She treated Clara less like an employee than like a granddaughter she had never had.
“Eat, Clara. You are too thin.”
1 afternoon, Isabella pushed a plate of cannoli toward her.
They were sitting among orchids in the sunroom.
“I’m fine, Isabella. You’re the one who needs to watch your sugar.”
Clara tightened the blood-pressure cuff.
130 over 85.
Better.
“Lorenzo needs a wife,” Isabella announced.
Clara nearly choked on her water.
“Excuse me?”
“He is 32. He is darker than night. He needs light.”
Isabella looked directly at Clara.
“He needs someone who doesn’t care about his money.”
“He’s a criminal, Isabella,” Clara whispered, checking the room for guards. “And I’m the help.”
“He is a businessman,” Isabella corrected.
Then she smiled.
“And you are the only person in this house besides me who is not afraid of him.”
As if summoned by the remark, the heavy doors opened.
Lorenzo entered.
He had just returned from a meeting downtown.
His charcoal suit remained immaculate, although his tie had been loosened and exhaustion showed around his eyes.
There was a dark mark on his cuff.
Clara hoped it was red wine.
She suspected it was blood.
“How is she?” Lorenzo asked.
He looked at Clara rather than his mother.
“Fine. Stubborn.”
Clara began packing her medical kit.
“She tried hiding her pills in the flowerpot again.”
A short laugh escaped Lorenzo.
It was a rare sound.
He crossed the room and kissed Isabella’s forehead.
“Behave, Mama.”
“I am bored, Enzo.”
Isabella gestured toward the antique chess table.
“Play with me.”
“I have work.”
“1 game. Or are you afraid I’ll beat you again?”
Lorenzo sighed.
He ran a hand through his hair and sat.
“Fine. 1 game.”
Clara intended to leave.
She should have.
Instead, she remained near the doorway and watched.
Lorenzo played aggressively.
Every movement had predatory efficiency.
He treated the board the way Clara imagined he treated the city, sacrificing pawns to gain control of the center.
Isabella played defensively, but medication had made her thinking slower.
Within 10 minutes, Lorenzo had forced her into a losing position.
“Checkmate in 3.”
Isabella sighed and tipped over her king.
“I’m too tired for this strategy.”
Then she looked at Clara.
“You play him.”
Lorenzo glanced up.
“I don’t think Ms. Vance knows how.”
The familiar spark of defiance rose inside Clara.
Before his death, her father had taught her chess in the park.
He had worked as a university janitor but read nearly every book in the library.
His lessons had never been about power.
They were about patience.
“I know how the pieces move.”
Lorenzo gestured toward the empty chair.
“Humor me.”
Clara sat.
She reset the board and chose black.
Lorenzo opened with the king’s pawn.
Aggressive.
Standard.
Clara answered with the Sicilian Defense.
Lorenzo stopped.
He looked at her more closely than he had in days.
“You know theory.”
“I know enough.”
The room became quiet.
The clock ticked.
Lorenzo moved quickly, attempting to control the rhythm.
Clara refused to follow it.
She played slowly.
She allowed him to take her bishop.
She allowed pressure against her queen.
“You’re losing, Ms. Vance,” Lorenzo said after moving his knight. “You’re exposed.”
“Am I?”
Clara advanced a pawn by a single square.
Lorenzo frowned.
He looked at the board.
Then he looked again.
His expression changed.
That 1 pawn move opened a diagonal and trapped his king behind his own pieces.
If he moved his queen to protect the king, he would lose his knight and the initiative.
If he did not, Clara could force checkmate within 4 moves.
“Zugzwang,” Lorenzo whispered.
A position in which every available move worsened the player’s situation.
He raised his eyes to Clara.
The arrogance had vanished.
Curiosity replaced it.
“Who taught you?”
“My father.”
Clara did not look away.
“He cleaned floors for a living. He taught me that the person sweeping the floor sees the dirt everyone else steps over.”
Lorenzo leaned back and placed his fingertips together.
Something changed in the room.
The tension was no longer hostile.
It was charged.
His eyes moved briefly to Clara’s mouth before returning to hers.
“I resign.”
From the sofa, Isabella clapped.
“I told you, Enzo. She is special.”
Lorenzo never looked at his mother.
His attention remained on Clara.
“Yes,” he said. “It appears she is.”
For a moment, Clara did not see a Mafia don.
She saw a man who had encountered someone capable of surprising him.
“Again,” Lorenzo said.
“I need to check Isabella’s vitals.”
Clara stood.
Her heart was beating quickly, and fear was not responsible.
“Later, then.”
The promise sounded equally like a threat and an invitation.
2 weeks later, the atmosphere inside the estate changed.
The quiet routine disappeared, replaced by hurried preparations.
The Morettis were hosting their annual charity gala.
Officially, it was a fundraiser for ocean conservation.
In reality, Clara understood that it was a summit attended by the 5 major families of the West Coast.
“You will attend,” Lorenzo told her that morning.
Clara looked down at her scrubs.
“I’m the nurse, not a show pony.”
“You are my mother’s caretaker, and she will be attending for 1 hour. You need to stay beside her.”
Lorenzo looked Clara up and down.
“And you cannot wear that.”
1 hour later, a stylist arrived.
The dress was emerald-green silk.
Backless.
A slit rose to Clara’s thigh.
It was restrained enough to preserve the appearance expected of Isabella’s caretaker but striking enough to command attention.
That evening, Clara descended the mansion’s grand staircase.
The ballroom below was filled with dangerous men in tuxedos and women whose smiles seemed sharp enough to cut.
Lorenzo stood at the bottom speaking with Don Salvatore of the Las Vegas outfit, an older man with a thick gray mustache.
Lorenzo looked up.
He stopped in the middle of his sentence.
His eyes followed Clara down the staircase.
Dark.
Hungry.
Possessive.
Clara reached the final step.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Clara.”
His voice dropped.
“You look adequate.”
“High praise.”
“Stay with my mother.”
Lorenzo discreetly indicated a man in a white suit standing near the bar.
“And stay away from him. Luca Rossi. He is a snake.”
Clara nodded and crossed the ballroom to Isabella.
The older woman was seated on a velvet sofa like a monarch holding court.
“Clara, you look like a movie star.”
Isabella beamed.
“Sit.”
The evening continued.
Champagne circulated continuously.
Clara kept Isabella from drinking alcohol, watched her breathing, and monitored her condition.
At approximately 10:00 p.m., a waiter approached carrying a tray of water glasses.
“Water for the Signora.”
He was young.
Nervous.
His hand trembled as he set the glass down.
Clara watched him carefully.
She had worked in restaurants long enough to recognize the difference between a server overwhelmed by a busy shift and someone hiding something.
Isabella reached for the water.
“Wait.”
Clara’s tone stopped her.
“What is it?”
Clara leaned closer.
The water was clear.
But a thin, almost invisible film floated over the surface.
There was also a faint smell.
Bitter almonds occurred to her first.
May you like
Cyanide.
Too obvious.
