Chapter 2 - The Shadow of the Moretti Empire Steps Into My Living Room
The door of my cramped basement apartment felt paper-thin against the terrifying weight of the world standing on the other side. Three slow, deliberate knocks had shattered the silence of the rainy night, and now, the name echoing from the hallway felt like a death sentence.
"Adrian Moretti."
My hands trembled around the tiny bundle cradled against my chest. The baby had finally stopped shivering, her breathing growing softer, warmer against my collarbone. But my own heart felt like it was trying to batter its way out of my ribs.
"Miss Vance," the deep, gravelly voice repeated, calm and commanding, cutting through the thin wood of the door like a blade. "Open the door. Please."
There was an eerie politeness to his tone, but I knew what lived beneath the surface of men like Adrian Moretti. They didn't ask twice. If I refused, the door would be splintered into kindling in less than a second by the armed shadows waiting outside in the pouring rain.
Slowly, I stepped across the worn linoleum floor, my damp shoes sticking slightly to the ground. I turned the deadbolt with a metallic click that seemed to echo through the entire building.
I pulled the door open just a few inches, keeping the security chain locked.
Through the narrow gap, I looked up.
And up.
Adrian Moretti stood under the flickering hallway light like a statue carved out of marble and suppressed rage. He wore a heavy black wool overcoat, its shoulders damp from the Manhattan rain. His dark hair was swept back, slicked with moisture, framing a face chiseled with ruthless perfection. But it was his eyes that locked me in place—eyes the color of dark obsidian, sharp enough to slice glass, currently boring straight through the gap in the door and down to the infant resting against my chest.
He didn't look at my face first. He looked at the baby.
A fraction of a second later, his gaze snapped up to mine, filled with an intensity so fierce it made my knees buckle.
"You have something of mine, Miss Vance," Adrian said, his voice dropping an octave, rich with quiet authority. "And I want her back."
"How... how do you know she's yours?" I managed to whisper, my throat dry as dust, desperately trying to shield the baby's face with the lapel of my coat.
Adrian didn't blink. He reached out a gloved hand, his fingers sliding effortlessly into the slot of the security chain. With a single, casual jerk of his wrist, the heavy steel chain ripped straight out of the rotting wooden doorframe as if it were made of thread.
The door swung wide open.
Panic surged through my chest. I took two instinctive steps backward, my back hitting the edge of my small kitchen counter. Two massive men in tailored black suits flanked Adrian instantly, stepping into my tiny apartment and filling every inch of available space with dangerous, suffocating presence.
Adrian stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The air in the room suddenly felt thin, charged with static electricity.
"I know she is mine," Adrian murmured, taking slow, deliberate steps toward me, "because that platinum chain around her neck was forged by my family’s master jeweler in Florence. And because nobody in this city dares touch what belongs to Adrian Moretti—except, it seems, a brave little housekeeper who chose to save my flesh and blood instead of running away."
He stopped just two feet away from me. Up close, his presence was overwhelming. He smelled of rain, expensive cedarwood, and faint gunpowder.
His dark eyes drifted down to the baby, who stirred softly in my arms, letting out a tiny, sleepy yawn. For a split second, the cold, ruthless mask over Adrian’s face fractured, revealing a raw, agonizing wave of paternal relief.
"May I?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly trembling.
I looked down at the tiny girl. I had pulled her out of a freezing dumpster three miles away, fought off my own terror, and brought her back to life with my own body heat. Letting her go felt like tearing a piece of my own soul away. Yet, looking into Adrian’s tortured eyes, I knew I couldn't keep her. She belonged to the lions.
Slowly, gently, I shifted my arms. Adrian reached out, his large, calloused hands—hands that had signed death warrants and controlled half the eastern seaboard—cradling the infant with a tenderness that defied belief.
He pulled her against his chest, closing his eyes as a ragged breath escaped his lips.
"My little Elena," he whispered softly.
I blinked. "Elena?"
Adrian looked up at me, his dark gaze locking onto mine with a terrifying, permanent fixation. "Yes. Elena. Named after the brave woman who kept her alive tonight."
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Before I could process what he meant, Adrian’s chief enforcer stepped forward, handing him an open leather briefcase filled with neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
"A token of my gratitude, Miss Vance," Adrian said flatly, pushing the case toward me. "One hundred thousand dollars. Consider your rent paid for the rest of your life. Pack your bags. You are coming with us."
