Chapter 4 - The Truth Behind the Moretti Empire
The footsteps echoing against the marble floor of Union Station made Mrs. Moretti look up. When her tired, lined eyes caught sight of the tall, broad-shouldered man in the bespoke charcoal suit rushing toward her, her breath hitched.
“Luca?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
He didn't care about the hundreds of commuters rushing past, or the security guards eyeing his expensive suit and armed entourage with suspicion. Luca Moretti—the man who controlled the docks, the financial district, and half the import-export unions in the Midwest—dropped heavily to his knees right there on the grime-streaked station floor. He buried his face against his mother’s frail shoulder, his strong hands gripping the fabric of her faded blue cardigan as if he were still a terrified ten-year-old boy holding onto the only safe harbor in his world.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” he choked out, the raw anguish in his deep voice stripping away every layer of the cold, ruthless mafia boss facade. “I’m so damn sorry.”
I stood a few feet away, holding the umbrella, feeling an unexpected lump rise in my throat. I turned my gaze away to give them privacy, watching the electronic departure board flicker as trains bound for St. Louis, Milwaukee, and Peoria flashed silently on the screen.
After a long moment, Mrs. Moretti gently stroked her son’s dark hair, her thumb brushing against the nape of his neck.
“Hush now, my boy,” she whispered, her voice warm and steady, carrying the rich, comforting scent of homemade broth and worn paper. “A big man like you, kneeling on a train station floor in front of all these people. What would your business partners say?”
“Let them say whatever the hell they want,” Luca muttered, pulling back to look into her eyes. His own eyes were dangerously bright, a rare crack in the armor he wore to survive the underworld. “You shouldn't have been down in that kitchen, Ma. You should have been upstairs in the master seat, right beside me.”
Mrs. Moretti smiled sadly, her gaze shifting past him to land on me. She gave me a gentle, appreciative nod before looking back at her son.
“No, Luca. That wasn't my place anymore,” she said softly. “Not with the company you’ve been keeping. That woman—Vanessa—she was right about one thing. I don't belong in a Gold Coast mansion among glass chandeliers and people who measure human worth by the price tag on a dress.”
Luca’s jaw tightened. “Vanessa is out. I ended it tonight.”
His mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “End an engagement over an old woman and a bowl of soup? You worked hard to secure that alliance, Luca. The Bellini family controls the shipping lanes down south. If you break it off now, there’s going to be a war.”
“Let them come,” Luca said, rising to his feet and helping his mother up with infinite care. He picked up her battered leather suitcase with one hand, his other arm securely around her waist. “I didn't spend ten years building this empire so I could let some shallow socialite humiliate the woman who gave me life. If the Bellinis want a war over a broken engagement, I’ll give them a war they’ll never forget.”
He turned to me, his expression softening just a fraction. “Emma. Take my car keys. Go back to the mansion, pack your things, and get your father’s medical documents. You’re moving into the guest wing tonight.”
I stared at him, stunned. “Sir? Move into the mansion? What about my apartment? What about my job?”
“Your job is no longer scrubbing floors, Emma,” Luca said firmly, guiding his mother toward the VIP exit where the Maybach was waiting. “Starting tonight, you’re my executive assistant and head of household operations. And as for your father’s mortgage and his medical bills? Consider them paid in full, effective immediately.”
I stood rooted to the spot as the words washed over me. Fourteen thousand dollars. The weight that had been crushing my chest for six months—the constant fear of eviction, the collection calls, the sleepless nights staring at the ceiling—vanished in a single sentence.
“Mr. Moretti…” I started, my voice trembling. “I—I don't know what to say.”
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“Don't say anything,” Luca replied, opening the car door for his mother. “Just get in the car. We have a lot of paperwork to go through, and Vanessa is probably already calling her father to start the war.”
As I climbed into the back seat beside Mrs. Moretti, who patted my hand with her warm, calloused fingers, I realized my ordinary life as a housekeeper was officially over. But little did I know, the war Vanessa’s father was about to declare would drag us into a deadly game of blood, betrayal, and buried secrets that went much deeper than a broken engagement dinner.
