Chapter 3
The Moretti estate in upstate New York was a fortress masked as an Italianate villa. Surrounded by four hundred acres of dense pine forest, reinforced perimeter walls, and biometric gates, the stone manor offered an absolute, suffocating quiet.
In the master suite on the second floor, Dr. Bennett, the family’s private physician, gently applied a soothing topical salve to Emily’s bruised forearms. The room was warm, filled with the scent of cedar and fresh lilies, the tall arched windows looking out over the misty Hudson Valley.
Emily sat propped against a bank of ivory pillows, wearing a soft cashmere sweater and sweatpants. Her belly moved slightly beneath the fabric—a gentle, rhythmic kick that brought a fresh wave of tears to her eyes.
"The baby's heartbeat is steady, Emily," Dr. Bennett said gently, packing his instruments into a leather medical bag. "No signs of placental abruption. But your cortisol levels are dangerously high. The contusions on your arms are consistent with heavy compression—someone gripped you with full force."
Salvatore stood by the fireplace, an untouched glass of bourbon in his hand. He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only his vest and crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
"What about her ribs, Robert?" Salvatore asked, his low voice breaking the quiet.
Dr. Bennett hesitated, glancing at Emily before looking back at the boss. "Bruising along the seventh and eighth ribs on the left side. It’s older—about two weeks old. It’s healing, but... she took a blunt blow to the torso, Salvatore."
Salvatore’s grip on the crystal glass tightened until the ice rattled against the rim. He did not curse. He did not throw the glass. The silence that fell over him was far more dangerous than any roar.
"Thank you, Robert," Salvatore said quietly. "Wait downstairs. Franco will see to your fee."
"Of course, Don Moretti," the doctor murmured, bowing his head and slipping out the heavy oak door.
The click of the latch echoed through the room. Salvatore set his glass on the mantelpiece and walked over to the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his massive frame bending forward with rare, tender care. He reached out and gently brushed a dark lock of hair from Emily’s forehead.
"Tell me everything, Emily," Salvatore said softly. "From the beginning."
Emily looked down at her hands, her lower lip quivering. "I didn't want to start a war, Dad. You worked so hard to broker peace with the Hales after the docks dispute. You said this marriage would protect our shipping lines for thirty years."
"I said that before I knew who they were," Salvatore answered, his voice firm and unwavering. "A thousand shipping lines are not worth a single drop of your blood. Why didn't you call me?"
"Ryan took my phone three months ago," Emily whispered, fresh tears tracing the pale curve of her cheek. "He replaced it with a monitored line. Linda moved into the guest wing shortly after I showed. Every time I tried to leave the estate, she told me that if I made a scene, Ryan would lose his seat on the board. And when Ryan lost money at the docks... he came home angry."
"He struck you?"
"The first time, he apologized," Emily choked out, pulling the blanket higher. "He brought flowers. He cried on his knees. But Linda sat in the parlor and told me that a good wife absorbs her husband's storms. She said that if I complained to you, you would kill Ryan, and our baby would grow up without a father."
Salvatore’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath his trimmed beard. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against his daughter’s temple, breathing in the scent of her hair.
"You listen to me, Emily," Salvatore whispered, his words slow, heavy, and absolute. "Your child will grow up in this house. He will carry my name, he will inherit my empire, and he will never know fear. The Hales thought they could hold you hostage to keep me in check. They forgot whose blood runs in your veins."
"Dad... Ryan’s father, Victor," Emily murmured, looking into his eyes. "He isn't like Ryan. He’s ruthless. He won't let this go."
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Salvatore offered a faint, terrifying smile.
"I am counting on it, sweetheart," he murmured. "Rest now."
