Chapter 7 - The Viper in the Nest
By 4:00 AM, my mother was comfortably installed in a secure, medically equipped guest suite in the West Wing of the Moretti estate. A private team of nurses—vetted personally by Viktor—monitored her vitals.
I sat at the mahogany dining table in the vast kitchen, nursing a cup of black coffee while the rain continued to batter the French doors.
Footsteps clicked against the tile.
I looked up expecting Viktor or one of the guards. Instead, Isabella Moretti stood in the doorway, holding a crystal glass of bourbon. She looked as immaculate as she had at midnight, her hair styled perfectly, her eyes sharp and predatory.
“Moving day for the peasants, I hear,” Isabella said, leaning against the doorframe and taking a slow sip of her drink. “First a runaway waitress, now her invalid mother. Next thing you know, this house will look like a public charity ward.”
“If you have something to say to me, Isabella, just say it,” I replied, not bothering to stand up.
Isabella walked over, setting her glass down on the table with a sharp clink. She leaned down, her face inches from mine.
“You think because Dominic brought you here after a firefight that you’re special?” she whispered, venom dripping from every syllable. “Dominic is impulsive. He feels guilty about the past—about losing his first wife in that car bombing five years ago. He sees a crying baby and a desperate woman, and his savior complex kicks in.”
My coffee cup froze halfway to my mouth. “His first wife?”
Isabella smiled, a cold, cruel thing. “Oh, didn't you know? Elena’s ghost still haunts this house. She died because Dominic couldn't protect her from his enemies. And now, he’s dragging you into the exact same crossfire.”
She straightened her silk robe, patting my shoulder patronizingly. “Sal Marcone isn’t going to stop with a warning note, my dear. He wants Dominic destroyed. And when the house burns down, you and your mother will just be collateral damage.”
She turned and sauntered out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with the cold coffee and a sinking feeling in my stomach.
A shadow fell across the doorway.
I looked up. Dominic was standing there in the dim light, watching me. How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard?
“She likes to talk,” Dominic said quietly, walking into the room.
“Is she right?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Did your first wife die because of your world?”
Dominic stopped a few feet away. The ambient light caught the hard angles of his face, casting deep shadows beneath his eyes. For the first time since I met him, he looked vulnerable—not weak, but carrying a weight so heavy it was crushing him from the inside out.
“Yes,” Dominic said, without hesitation or excuses. “She died because of who I am. And I swore over her casket that I would never let anyone else I cared about pay that price.”
“Then why bring me here?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly. “Why put me in the middle of your war?”
Dominic stepped closer, until I could feel the heat radiating off him. He reached out, his warm fingers gently touching my chin, tilting my face up so I had no choice but to look into his eyes.
“Because when I saw you at Bellavita—holding my son, refusing to back down, bringing him back from the edge when everyone else was screaming—I didn't see a waitress,” Dominic murmured, his voice husky and intense. “I saw someone who wasn't afraid of the dark.”
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Before I could process the words, before I could step back or pull away, his head dipped down.
And his lips met mine.
