Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Moretti Estate
The rain hit my face like needles as I sprinted down Fifth Avenue, ignoring the sharp, cramping pain tightening across my lower abdomen. I didn't care about the cold, the mud splashing against my boots, or the stares of pedestrians dodging my frantic flight. I only knew one terrifying truth: Luca Moretti had found me. And once a wolf catches the scent of its straying mate, it never stops hunting.
I ducked into the subterranean entrance of the subway station, paying cash for a token and boarding the first downtown train that arrived.
As the rattling subway car carried me through the dark tunnels toward Brooklyn, my mind raced back to the gilded prison I had fled eight months ago.
The Moretti estate in Westchester wasn't just a home; it was a fortress carved out of old money, limestone, and decades of mafia blood. When I married Luca at twenty-two, I had been blinded by his dark charisma, his protective swagger, and the intoxicating illusion that being the queen of New York’s underworld meant I was safe.
I was wrong.
The turning point came on a freezing November night. I walked into Luca’s private study to bring him coffee and witnessed something I was never meant to see: Luca casually executing a disloyal capo right across our custom Italian marble desk, his face devoid of human emotion. When he looked up and saw me standing there in the doorway, he didn't apologize or try to hide it. He simply told me to go upstairs and forget I saw anything, as if murder were just another item on his daily agenda.
That night, I realized the man I loved was a monster who could never offer a child anything but violence, fear, and a target on its back.
When I discovered I was pregnant two months later, I knew what I had to do. I waited until his annual summit trip to Zurich, liquidated every hidden emergency account I had managed to stash away in cash, smashed my burner phone, and vanished into the labyrinth of Brooklyn without a trace.
I thought I had won. I thought I had outsmarted the devil.
Instead, a chance encounter in a luxury boutique had unraveled eight months of careful planning in less than five minutes.
The train screeched to a halt at my stop. I hurried up the concrete stairs into the damp Brooklyn evening, rushing down a quiet, tree-lined street until I reached my brownstone apartment. I scrambled up the steps, unlocked the deadbolts with trembling hands, and slammed the door shut behind me, throwing every lock into place.
I leaned my back against the heavy wooden door, sliding down until I hit the floor, clutching my stomach as a wave of exhaustion and fear washed over me.
“We’re safe,” I whispered to the baby, tears streaming down my cheeks. “We’re safe here.”
Then my phone—the cheap burner I only used to call my grocery delivery service—pinged loudly from the kitchen counter.
My breath caught in my throat.
May you like
I crawled into the kitchen on hands and knees, pulling myself up by the edge of the granite island. The screen lit up with a single, unknown text message.
“You dropped something at the store, Isabella. And you forgot the golden rule of New York: You can run, but my shadow covers every inch of this city. Pack a bag. I’m coming to pick up my family in one hour.”
