Chapter 3 – Mrs. Moretti

If my life had a soundtrack, this part would be silence.

No crowd noise. No drums. Just the soft hum of the air‑conditioner and my own pulse pounding in my ears as I stare at the hotel TV, where some late‑night talking head is laughing about my latest “heartless siren” meme, blissfully unaware that his punchline has just become a legal wife.

I clicked the TV off.

The silence roars.

On the bed in front of me, the marriage certificate and the contract lie side by side on the white duvet like two open graves.

Mia sits cross‑legged at the foot of the bed in my old hoodie and leggings, hair in a lopsided bun, bare face paler than I’ve seen it in years. Rafael prowls from window to minibar and back like a caged animal, phone clenched in his hand, muttering to himself as he scrolls.

“This is bad,” Mia says for the tenth time. “Like… not even your usual bad. This is ‘lifetime documentary with ominous music’ bad.”

“No kidding.” My laugh scrapes my throat on the way out. “They didn’t even bother with a pun in the blind item. That’s how you know it’s serious.”

“This isn’t funny, Luna.”

“I’m not laughing.”

I rub my thumb over the crease in the certificate, where I folded it too hard earlier. My stupid, loopy eighteen‑year‑old signature stares back at me from the bottom. It looks like someone else’s hand. Someone else’s life.

“What are our options?” Mia asks. “Real ones. Not the part where we teleport to Mars.”

“So far they all sound like different flavors of fucked,” I say.

Mia crawls up the bed until her shoulder presses against mine. She plucks the top page off the duvet, scans it again and winces.

“I still can’t believe you signed this,” she whispers.

“I signed a lot of things,” I snap, heat spiking through the numbness. “Back then Jimmy shoved papers at me every other day and said, ‘You want to be famous or not?’ If he’d told me to sign in blood, I probably would’ve pricked my thumb and said where.”

The anger drains as fast as it hit. Mia flinches, and guilt twists in my gut.

“Sorry,” I say, dragging a hand down my face. “That wasn’t for you.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “I still reserve the right to hate him extra on your behalf.”

“He’s rotting in whatever rat hole he crawled into,” Rafael says from by the window. “We should be focusing on the rat who thinks he owns you now.”

He tosses his phone onto the armchair like it betrayed him. “Every lawyer I know suddenly has a conflict of interest,” he says. “As soon as they hear ‘Moretti,’ it’s all ‘send the docs, we’ll review’ and ‘this is delicate’ and ‘maybe don’t antagonize him.’”

“Cowards,” Mia mutters.

“Realists,” Rafael corrects, then looks at me, eyes softening. “We can still get you out of here tonight. I have friends in Madrid. Their villa is gated, quiet, totally off the paparazzi circuit. We go there, lie low, find someone who’ll actually fight this.”

“And when the internet decides I faked a mafia marriage for clout?” I ask. “Or when the guy in Naples realizes the only thing standing between us just walked away?”

Fear tastes metallic in my mouth.

“We go public on your terms,” Rafael says. “We leak your side first. Teary video, big reveal: ‘I was tricked into a contract at nineteen, I didn’t know, I’m freeing myself now.’ People will back you.”

“For about five minutes,” Mia says quietly. “Then the other side drops screenshots and court files and everyone starts arguing about who’s lying.”

“Thank you, ray of sunshine,” I mutter.

She makes a face. “Sorry. I just… you know how they are. They’ll call you a liar, a gold‑digger, a drama queen. And if any of what he said about that other guy is true…” She trails off, chewing her lower lip.

“It is,” Rafael says grimly. “I’ve heard whispers. A man in Naples who buys up contracts, girls, whatever he can monetize. I thought it was just underworld myth. The way Dante talked…” He shakes his head. “It’s not.”

I press my fingertips into my temples, trying to massage away the pounding there.

“So my choices are: run and hope the monster doesn’t find me, or stay and walk into the cage he built,” I say.

Rafael’s jaw tightens. “We will find a third option.”

“You know what happens to girls who disappear,” I say. “They get replaced. Mocked. Turned into cautionary tales and TikTok jokes. I worked too hard to end up as some ‘what ever happened to Luna Vega?’ thread on Reddit.”

I clawed my way out of nothing with a busted mic and a boy who swore I was meant for stadiums, not smoky bars. I’m not letting two rich men turn me back into a cautionary footnote.

“Call the label,” Mia says suddenly. “If they’re really behind you, they’ll throw lawyers and PR at this. If they’re not… better to know now.”

My stomach lurches. “They’re going to lose their minds.”

“Exactly,” she says. “Let’s see whether they lose them for you or for his money.”

I don’t want to know the answer.

But I pick up my phone anyway and punch in my A&R rep’s number. It rings twice.

“Luna! Babygirl, that show was fire, we’re already seeing—”

“There’s a blind item about me on *StarByte*,” I cut in. “About a secret husband.”

Paper rustles on her end. I can practically see her swiveling in her ergonomic chair, screens lighting her up in LA.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “I see something. It’s vague, honey. Could be anyone. You know how they are with their ‘sources’—”

“It’s about me,” I say. “And it’s not vague to the people who actually know my life.”

There’s a tiny pause, the kind where you can hear someone decide which version of the truth they’re going to hand you.

“Luna,” she says, tone cooling, smoothing out. “We are absolutely on your side. But you need to understand something: Moretti Holdings is a major—*major*—investor in several of our ventures. This is… delicate.”

“So you knew,” I say, sitting up straighter. My mouth goes dry; my fingers tighten around the phone until the plastic creaks. It feels a lot like bracing for a punch I can’t see.

“We knew of… certain arrangements that allowed your career to flourish,” she hedges. “We didn’t know the specifics of your personal relationship. That’s between you and Mr. Moretti.”

“Certain arrangements,” I repeat. “Like what, exactly?”

“Like financing tour insurance when no one else would take the risk,” she says. “Like taking on your security firm when they were about to go under. Look, legally, from what our counsel is saying in my ear right now”—I hear a muffled voice in the background—“this is not a great time to be adversarial with him. If there are contracts, our legal team needs to see them before we can advise you. Until then, our official position is no comment.”

“And unofficially?” I ask.

“Unofficially,” she says after a beat, “any public move that frames him as a predator could have… catastrophic consequences for your brand if it turns out the paperwork is valid. And if it antagonizes him enough to pull funding from our upcoming projects, everyone suffers. Including you.”

“So don’t rock the billionaire boat,” I sum up. “Got it.”

“Luna,” she sighs. “You’re a star. But there are bigger forces in play than one artist’s feelings. Let’s be smart. Stay quiet. Don’t post. Don’t confirm, don’t deny. Let us handle the messaging. And for the love of God, don’t do anything to make this worse with the Morettis.”

The call drops.

The silence hums.

“Well?” Rafael demands.

“They’re on my side,” I say, “as long as I don’t upset the man who owns half their revenue stream.”

Mia mutters a curse.

I set the phone down carefully, like it might shatter.

“On stage, I can get fifty thousand people to scream when I tell them to,” I say. “Back here, I’m just a line item on a spreadsheet.”

“Luna…” Mia’s voice is soft.

“I’m not a person to them,” I continue, anger cutting through the hollow ache. “I’m a product whose value tanks if someone decides I come with a dangerous husband clause.”

“They’re wrong,” Rafael says fiercely. “You’re—”

“Am I?” I look up at him. “Because right now the only people holding real power over my life are a man who vanished seven years ago and came back with a marriage certificate, and a shadow in Naples who thinks my skin is a receipt.”

Dante walked away and left me screaming into pillows and microphones. Rafael walked in and handed me tea and contracts and space. I should know exactly which man to trust.

I don’t.

That might be the worst part.

Rafael’s mouth opens, then shuts.

Mia reaches over and laces her fingers through mine, squeezing.

“If your mother’s family were still around, he’d never dare this,” she mutters.

I blink. “What?”

She hesitates, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“Nothing,” she says too quickly. “Just… your mom always said the Vegas weren’t exactly nobodies back in Spain. Old money. Old connections. If she hadn’t run off with your dad and lost touch, you’d probably have some granduncle to scare these guys back into their caves.”

A hazy image surfaces: my mother at our tiny kitchen table, flipping through a cracked leather photo album. Stern men in suits on stone terraces. Her laugh when she said, *All of this and I picked your father instead. The drama, eh, mi estrella?*

If there was something in my blood that wasn’t just poverty and stubbornness.

If there was something he didn’t know about me.

Later, I tell myself. If there is a later.

A sharp knock rattles the suite door.

All three of us jolt.

“Room service?” Mia whispers.

“I didn’t order anything,” I mutter.

Rafael is already moving. He crosses the room in a few long strides, peeks through the peephole, and goes very still.

“What?” I hiss.

He glances back at me. “It’s not the press,” he says. “It’s worse.”

He undoes the latch and cracks the door open.

“Señor Cruz.” A smooth, accented voice flows through the gap. “Good evening.”

Rafael exhales like someone punched him. “Of course he’d send you.”

Curiosity and dread twist together in my gut. “Who is it?” I demand.

The door opens wider.

The man on the threshold looks like he was carved out of expensive stone. Early thirties, dark hair cut neat at the sides, a little longer on top, grey eyes sharp enough to slice. His charcoal suit fits like it was sewn on his body; his white shirt is open at the throat, no tie.

He scans the room once, fast, then fixes on me.

“Ms. Vega,” he says with a small nod. “I’m Luca Romano. Mr. Moretti asked me to escort you.”

My skin prickles. “Escort me where?”

“Home,” he says simply.

Rafael steps between us, shoulders squaring. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

Luca’s gaze ticks to him. “Señor Cruz. Always a pleasure.”

“You and I have very different definitions of pleasure,” Rafael snaps.

Luca’s mouth curves, just a fraction. “So I’ve heard.”

Mia’s glare could cut steel. Luca meets it with a faintly amused, maddeningly calm look.

Great. Even my best friend has instant chemistry with the enemy’s right hand.

“Okay,” I cut in before the testosterone clouds the room. “Why are you here, Luca Romano? And how do you know my producer?”

“I’m Mr. Moretti’s chief of security,” he says. “And his…second, in some matters.” His eyes return to me. “We’ve crossed paths with Señor Cruz in the industry.”

“He tried to poach one of my clients by threatening to pull funding from her label,” Rafael mutters.

Luca ignores that. “Paparazzi are gathering in the lobby,” he continues. “Someone tipped them off that you’re staying here. There are at least three cars outside with long‑lens cameras pointed at this floor.”

My heart stutters.

“Of course there are,” Mia groans. “Leaky bastards.”

“If you remain,” Luca says calmly, “they will catch you when you leave. They will shout questions about the blind item. Your ‘secret husband.’ ‘Mob ties.’ Any stumble will be screen‑grabbed and posted worldwide within seconds. Mr. Moretti thought you might prefer to maneuver before that happens.”

“Mr. Moretti,” I repeat, the name sour on my tongue. “Touched by his concern.”

“He also asked me to inform you,” Luca adds, “that the other interested party has men in Sicily tonight. They were seen near the venue earlier. They may not know where you are yet. He prefers not to give them a head start.”

Mia swears.

Luca steps inside and lets the door fall softly shut behind him. He doesn’t crowd us, but he changes the air in the room just by existing. He feels like a wall—one you could break yourself on if you’re not careful.

“His jet leaves in two hours,” Luca says. “Private terminal. Discreet. If you come now, we can move you without exposure. If you do not…” He lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “You face the press alone. And whoever else is watching.”

Rafael glowers. “What a generous offer. Be caged by the devil, or hunted in the streets.”

Luca looks at him, unruffled. “Do you have a better one?”

“I can get her out of the country,” Rafael says. “Right now. Somewhere safe. Somewhere he doesn’t own.”

“And then?” Luca asks. “You hide for how long? Months? Years? While her career curdles and strangers fight online over ‘what really happened to Luna Vega’? The men who think they own her will still be out there. She will simply be easier to grab without cameras.”

Rafael’s jaw works.

He isn’t wrong.

That’s what makes me want to scream.

“Stop talking about me like I’m not in the room,” I say.

Luca’s grey eyes meet mine again. There’s a flicker of something like respect there now.

“My apologies, Ms. Vega,” he says. “It is your choice. I am only the messenger.”

“Some messenger,” Rafael mutters.

Mia nudges my arm. “Luna.”

If I stay, I will walk out of this hotel into a wall of flashes and microphones and loaded questions. One slip, one wrong word, one crack in my voice, and the narrative is theirs.

If I go, I walk straight into Dante’s world. Into his villa, his rules, his bed if I’m not careful.

Both paths feel like losing.

But one of them at least puts me in the same room as the man who lit the match under my life.

If I’m going to burn, I want my hands on the gasoline.

“I’m not doing this because he snapped his fingers,” I say slowly. “I’m not running to him for protection like some scared little girl. If I go, it’s because it’s the best position from which to fight him. And whoever else thinks they own me.”

I can already hear his voice in my head, low and smug: *I knew you’d come.*

I hate that some bruised, traitorous part of me wants to prove him right and wrong at the same time.

“Luna—” Rafael starts.

“I can’t go dark for months,” I cut him off. “You know that. I disappear now, and they’ll replace me on playlists before my body’s even cold. At least with him, I’m not fighting blind.”

He swallows, pain etched into his face. “We can—”

“We can still fight from there,” I say. “You said it yourself. We find lawyers. Dig up everything on these contracts. Make a plan. I just… I’ll do it where the bullets are more likely to hit someone else first.”

Mia lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half sob. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

Luca tilts his head. “Mr. Moretti will be pleased you see reason.”

Heat flares in my chest. “Don’t twist this. I’m not seeing his reason. I’m seeing mine.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “You’ll want to pack.”

I stand on unsteady legs.

“What am I supposed to bring?” I ask. “My entire tour wardrobe?”

“We can ship trunks later,” Luca says. “For tonight, a small bag. Essentials. Clothes for a day or two. Everything else can be arranged in Sicily.”

Sicily.

It hits me for real then. This isn’t just a conversation. It’s a departure.

Mia is already halfway to the closet.

“You’re not going alone,” she says. “If you think I’m letting you run off to MafiaLand without me, you’re dumber than your lyrics about that DJ.”

“I can’t drag you into this,” I protest.

She throws a pair of jeans into my suitcase. “Too late. I’ve been in this since the first time I threatened to tase that creepy A&R guy. I’m coming. Someone has to glare at Dante when you’re too tired.”

“You’re not on his list,” I say. “He doesn’t own you.”

She straightens, looks me dead in the eye. “I’m on *your* list. That’s enough.”

My throat tightens.

Rafael steps in front of me, hands settling on my shoulders.

“Don’t do this,” he says quietly. “Don’t go back to him. He’ll eat you alive.”

“Then I’ll choke him on my bones,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. “I can’t fight what I don’t understand, Raf. Running in the dark won’t fix this.”

His eyes search mine. Fear. Anger. Something softer he’s never said out loud.

He pulls me into a quick, crushing hug, hand cradling the back of my head like I might break.

“Call me,” he murmurs into my hair. “Every chance you get. If he hurts you—”

“I know,” I say, even though we both know there’s not much he can do against a man like Dante Moretti.

He lets me go and looks past me to Luca.

“If anything happens to her—”

“I die,” Luca says simply.

Rafael blinks. “That’s… dramatic.”

“It’s also accurate,” Luca replies without a hint of humor. “Mr. Moretti is very clear about my responsibilities.”

Mia whistles low. “Great. Human collateral. We’re definitely in billionaire psycho territory now.”

We pack fast.

Toothbrush. A couple pairs of jeans. A hoodie. My favorite beat‑up leather jacket. A handful of stage outfits Mia insists on shoving into a garment bag “in case you need to out‑glitter him.”

The certificate and contract go into the outside pocket of my carry‑on. I hate touching them, but I’m not leaving them where someone else can.

By the time we’re done, my legs feel like someone else’s.

Luca checks the hallway through the peephole.

“Press?” I ask.

“Not on this floor yet,” he says. “They’re in the lobby and outside. We’ll use a staff elevator and service exit. Keep your head down.”

“I’m good at that,” I mutter.

The irony tastes bitter.

The trip through the hotel is a blur of beige walls and humming lights. Luca moves like he’s done this a thousand times: nods to staff, murmurs into his earpiece, turns at unmarked corridors that somehow all lead us away from prying eyes.

We slip out a back door into the cool night air. Camera flashes strobe faintly around the front corner of the building; the noise of shouted questions bleeds around the brick.

Two black SUVs idle by the loading dock. One of Dante’s men—different suit, same aura of controlled violence—opens the rear door of the nearer one.

“Go,” Luca says.

Mia slides in first. I follow, ducking my head. Luca climbs in last, shutting the door firmly.

The driver pulls away before my seatbelt clicks.

We take a route I don’t recognize, weaving through dark side streets, then merging onto a highway. The city lights thin out. The world outside becomes a smear of black and distant gold.

Mia scrolls her phone, thumbs flying. I stare at the certificate poking out of my bag and try not to think about what it would feel like to rip it into pieces.

Rafael’s last text glows at the top of my screen.

*Call me when you land. Don’t let him corner you alone.*

Too late.

The private terminal is quiet when we arrive. No paparazzi, no fans—just a few planes sleeping under floodlights and ground crew in reflective vests.

The jet waiting for us is white and sleek, the Moretti crown logo small and subtle near the tail.

Of course it’s a crown.

Luca steps out first, scans the tarmac, then gestures for us to follow.

The night air is cool against my face, lifting stray strands of my hair. The roar of distant commercial flights is just enough white noise to make the moment feel unreal.

A flight attendant waits at the bottom of the stairs, polished and professional. Her eyes flick from Luca to me to Mia, curiosity flaring then smoothing into a neutral smile.

“Ms. Vega,” she says. “Mr. Moretti is on board.”

Of course he is.

My boots clink softly on the metal steps. With every rung, my heart thuds louder.

At the top, I pause for half a beat, hand on the frame, breathing in recycled cool air that smells like leather and coffee and something darker that’s all him.

Then I step inside.

The cabin could be a living room in a magazine—cream leather seats, dark wood paneling, a couch along one wall, soft lighting. The low hum of the engines vibrates under my feet.

He stands by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly on the back of a seat. The harsh white of the tarmac lights silhouettes him, turning him into a dark cut‑out against the glass. Haloed in machine glow, like heaven is mocking hell.

He turns when he hears me.

For a moment, we just stare at each other across the narrow aisle.

His gaze drags down my body—jeans, hoodie, leather jacket, scuffed boots, the remnants of stage makeup I didn’t bother to fully scrub off. Something like satisfaction flickers in his eyes, like I’ve passed some test just by showing up.

He straightens to his full height, the predator in a perfectly pressed shirt.

“Welcome home, wife,” Dante says.

My skin burns at the word—but fear isn’t the only thing crawling under it.

Mrs. Moretti.

The name feels like a necklace made of barbed wire right now.

But one day, if I survive this, I’m going to learn how to wrap it around his throat.