เข้าสู่ระบบMoretti Tower. The Penthouse. Three Years Later."No, Papa. The bear sits here."I paused in the doorway of the living room, leaning against the doorframe, a warm cup of coffee in my hands.The undisputed King of Wall Street, the man who had dismantled a Sicilian syndicate and brought the federal government to its knees, was currently sitting cross-legged on a plush Persian rug. He was wearing a custom-tailored charcoal suit, but his tie was discarded on the sofa, and he was holding a tiny, chipped porcelain teacup.Across from him sat Elena.She was three years old, a whirlwind of dark curls and fierce, uncompromising opinions. She wore a tulle princess dress over a pair of denim overalls, a sartorial choice she had aggressively negotiated that morning."My apologies, Principessa," Lorenzo said, his deep, rumbling voice completely devoid of its usual boardroom edge. He carefully moved a stuffed brown bea
St. John’s Cemetery. Queens, New York. Early June.The private Moretti family mausoleum was built of white marble, standing stark and imposing against the lush green grass of the cemetery. It was a monument designed to project power and intimidation, even in death.The black SUV idled quietly on the paved path a few dozen yards away. Enzo stood by the hood, his hands clasped casually in front of him, keeping a respectful distance.Lorenzo and I walked up the stone steps together.He wasn't wearing his armor today. There was no bespoke three-piece suit, no silk tie. He wore a simple black cashmere sweater and dark jeans. In his arms, completely undisturbed by the solemn atmosphere, slept three-month-old Elena, bundled in a soft pink blanket.I walked beside him, holding a single bouquet of white lilies.Lorenzo stopped in front of the heavy bronze doors of the mausoleum. Carved into the stone above the entrance
The Tyrrhenian Sea. The Donna. One Week Later.The water was a brilliant, impossible shade of sapphire.I lay on the sun deck of the newly christened hundred-and-fifty-foot yacht, The Donna, letting the warm Mediterranean breeze wash over me. I wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and oversized sunglasses, a cold glass of sparkling lemonade resting in my hand.For the first time in a year, I wasn't looking over my shoulder. I wasn't scanning the horizon for rival families or federal agents. I was simply watching my husband.Lorenzo was standing in the shallow plunge pool at the stern of the yacht. He wore dark swim trunks, the sunlight highlighting the powerful lines of his chest and the fading scars on his shoulder. He looked ridiculously handsome, but the most captivating part of the picture was the tiny life jacket he was holding.Elena was fast asleep in his arms, shaded by a large linen umbrella."She is definitely
Villa Moretti. The Courtyard Reception. 6:00 PM.The reception was a masterpiece of Sicilian joy.Long wooden tables were arranged under the white silk tents, draped in ivory linen and groaning under the weight of the feast. There were platters of roasted lamb with rosemary, bowls of rich squid-ink pasta, fresh arancini, and endless bottles of deep red Nero d'Avola wine pouring freely into crystal glasses.String lights had been strung between the ancient olive trees, casting a warm, golden glow as the sun began its slow descent toward the Mediterranean horizon.I sat next to Lorenzo at the head table. My lace veil was draped over the back of my chair, and I had kicked my heels off under the table. Lorenzo had discarded his tuxedo jacket and unfastened the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt. He looked devastatingl
Villa Moretti. The Master Suite. 3:00 PM.I stared at my reflection in the antique floor-length mirror.A year ago, in a cold, modern penthouse in Manhattan, I had worn a stark, geometric silk gown. My hair had been pulled back into a severe chignon, and my smile had been practiced in front of a PR team. I was an employee putting on a uniform.Today, the woman looking back at me was a completely different person.I wore a gown of vintage Sicilian lace, the intricate ivory patterns cascading down my arms and pooling on the stone floor. It was soft, romantic, and breathtakingly heavy. My hair was loose, falling in soft waves over my shoulders, woven with tiny white jasmine flowers that perfumed the air every time I turned my head.I wasn't a corporate asset anymore. I was the Donna.The heavy wooden door creaked open. Nonna Donatella stepped in, leaning on her silver-tipped cane. She paused, her shar
Palermo, Sicily. The Private Airstrip. Early May.The Sicilian sun was blindingly bright, casting a golden haze over the tarmac as the wheels of the Gulfstream touched down.I looked out the window of the jet. The last time we had been at this airport, we were fleeing in the dead of night, Lorenzo bleeding in the seat beside me, the flames of Matteo's warehouse burning in the rearview mirror.Today, the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue."She slept through the landing," Lorenzo murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt.He was sitting across from me, looking devastatingly relaxed in a crisp white linen shirt and dark trousers. Resting perfectly in the crook of his arm was Elena, now three months old and swaddled in a light, breathable cotton blanket. She was sound asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically, completely unbothered by the fact that she had just crossed the Atlantic."She's a seasone







