Chapter 3 - The Contracted Vows of Lake Shore Drive
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked with agonizing slowness. I stared at the diamond ring, then back into Luca Moretti’s unblinking grey eyes.
“Are you insane?” The words slipped out before my survival instincts could filter them. “I’m your housemaid! The entire syndicate saw Vanessa wearing that dress last night! You can't just... swap brides like you're returning a rental car!”
A faint, dangerous smirk touched the corner of Luca’s lips. “In my world, Emma, power doesn't ask for permission; it dictates reality. Last night, Vanessa was arrested in front of thirty-two witnesses for attempted homicide. The city’s elite saw her treason. They also saw you step into the line of fire to save the head of the Moretti family.”
He picked up the heavy platinum ring, turning it between his calloused fingers. “The syndicate doesn't care about fairy tales. They care about strength, bloodlines, and leverage. Your father was Antonio Moretti’s sworn brother. By our laws, you carry the legacy of the Reed foundation. Marrying you doesn't just satisfy the council’s marriage mandate—it legally locks Dante Vance out of the land deeds your father protected with his life.”
“And what do I get?” I demanded, standing up to meet his height, refusing to cower. “A bullseye on my back? An arranged cage in a house surrounded by killers?”
“You get your father’s complete recovery,” Luca replied without missing a beat. “I have already hired the head of neurosurgery from Johns Hopkins. He flies in tonight. Every medical expense, every therapy session, every dime of his comfort is paid for the rest of his natural life. Furthermore, upon our marriage, a trust fund containing twenty-five million dollars will be established under your independent name. If I fall, you walk away wealthy, untouchable, and free.”
My pulse raced. Twenty-five million dollars. My father’s life guaranteed. But the price was tying my soul to the most dangerous predator in Illinois.
“And what kind of marriage is this?” I asked quietly, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Do you expect me to... be a real wife to you?”
Luca stepped closer, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before rising back to meet my eyes with unnerving intensity. “It will be a legal contract in the eyes of the church and the state. You will wear my ring, carry my name, and stand at my side at every formal gathering. We will share the master suite because my enemies watch every window, and a divided bedroom invites assassination. But I will never force you into my bed, Emma. You have my word on my father's grave. If a day comes when you want to leave after Vance is dealt with, the divorce will be quiet and your fortune will remain yours.”
I looked out the panoramic windows overlooking the manicured lawns. Down on the driveway, black armored SUVs idled quietly, men in suits patrolling the perimeter with automatic rifles hidden under their coats. My old life—my quiet, exhausting life of counting pennies for bus fare—was over the second I touched that silver plate.
“Take me to my father first,” I said firmly. “I won't agree to anything until I see him with my own eyes.”
Luca nodded approvingly. “Fair enough.”
He guided me down the long, carpeted hallways of the east wing to a converted medical suite that rivaled any high-end private hospital. Through the glass partition, I saw my father resting comfortably in an adjustable bed. He wasn't pale and neglected like he had been in the understaffed county rehab. His skin had color. An IV drip steadily delivered high-grade vitamins and medication, and a private nurse was gently working the muscles of his left arm.
As I walked into the room, my father turned his head. His eyes, usually clouded with fatigue and frustration, cleared when he saw me.
“Em... ma...” he managed to slur softly, his right hand lifting off the blanket.
I rushed to his side, dropping to my knees and burying my face into his hand. “Dad... I'm here. You're safe. We’re going to be okay.”
Luca entered quietly, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands folded in front of him. My father’s gaze shifted to Luca. To my utter shock, my father didn't flinch. Instead, a profound look of relief washed over his weathered face. His trembling fingers tapped three times against the bed rail—a rhythmic code.
Luca responded with a single, respectful nod. “I have her, Thomas. No one will touch her again. I swear it on the family crest.”
My father closed his eyes, a solitary tear leaking down his cheek as he nodded back.
Ten minutes later, in the hallway outside, I looked up at the Mafia king. “I'll do it. Bring the papers.”
The next forty-eight hours were a blur of absolute chaos. High-end stylists, French couturiers, and armed security details flooded the mansion. My simple cotton uniform was stripped away, replaced by silk robes, bespoke shoes, and a custom-tailored wedding gown of pure ivory lace woven with delicate silver thread.
By Saturday afternoon, the grand ballroom of the Moretti estate had been transformed into an impenetrable fortress draped in white lilies and black silk. Two hundred made men, corrupt politicians, and foreign associates packed the pews. They had arrived expecting to witness Vanessa Bellini seal the city's fate; instead, rumors of the poisoned plate had spread like wildfire.
When the heavy doors opened and the organ roared to life, every head turned.
I walked down the aisle alone, my chin held high, holding a bouquet of white calla lilies. Luca stood at the altar in a bespoke charcoal tuxedo, his broad shoulders squared, his gaze fixed solely on me. When I reached the steps, he extended his hand. His skin was warm and rough against mine, his grip rock-solid.
“You look breathtaking,” he whispered, so low only I could hear.
The priest spoke the ancient Latin vows. When Luca slipped the platinum ring onto my finger, his thumb grazed my knuckles in a gesture that felt shockingly protective. When the priest announced us as husband and wife, Luca leaned down, cupped the side of my face with his inked hand, and pressed his lips to mine.
It wasn't a cold, staged peck for the cameras. It was warm, deep, and intoxicating, sending a shockwave of heat straight through my veins. For three breathless seconds, the entire room dissolved.
Then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral ballroom blasted open with the sound of splintering wood.
A dozen men in black combat tactical gear stormed into the entryway, assault rifles raised. And striding through the middle of them was Dante Vance himself, a cruel smirk plastered across his scarred face.
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“Hold your fire, boys!” Vance bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “I wouldn't want to ruin the lovely ceremony! But before the Don kisses his little maid, I believe we have some unfinished business regarding who actually owns this city!”
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