Staying in Vincent Moretti’s house for a second night was not part of my plan.
Neither was the third.
By the fourth morning, Teresa had placed my coffee beside Noah’s chocolate milk without asking.
That frightened me more than the security guards.
Normalcy was dangerous.
You could become attached to it.
Vincent gave me the freedom to leave whenever I wanted.
Technically.
Practically, Tony had men watching my old apartment, Bellarosa, and two places where I had worked earlier that year.
So I stayed.
But I made rules.
The first rule was simple.
“I don’t want your money.”
Vincent stood at his kitchen counter, reading something on a tablet.
“I didn’t offer it.”
“You offered lawyers.”
“Lawyers cost money.”
“I’ll repay you.”
“No.”
“Then I won’t use them.”
He looked up.
“You’re very stubborn.”
“So are you.”
“Yes, but I’m better funded.”
I folded my arms.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
We compromised.
His attorney, Claire Donnelly, agreed to take my civil case on contingency because the forged estate documents and fraudulent property transfer were strong enough to justify it independently.
The criminal side went to state investigators Claire trusted.
Vincent stayed out of it.
At my insistence.
Mostly.
The second rule involved Noah.
“He has to understand I’m not actually marrying him.”
Vincent sat opposite me at breakfast.
Noah’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Why?”
“Because you’re six.”
“So?”
“You can’t get married at six.”
“Why?”
“It’s the law.”
Noah looked toward Vincent.
“Change it.”
Vincent kept reading his newspaper.
“I’m not changing state law before breakfast.”
Noah sighed.
Adults were apparently useless.
I leaned toward him.
“But I can be your friend.”
“Best friend?”
“We’ll negotiate.”
Noah considered this.
“Okay.”
Vincent lowered the paper.
“And the third rule?”
I blinked.
“How do you know there’s a third?”
“You have a list face.”
“I do not have a list face.”
“You absolutely do.”
I ignored that.
“The third rule is about you.”
Vincent became still.
Noah looked between us with interest.
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“What rule?”
“I don’t want to know anything about your business that puts me in danger.”
“You’re already in danger.”
“More danger.”
“Fair.”
“And I’m not becoming part of anything illegal.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I’m making it clear.”
“It’s clear.”
“And you don’t get to order me around.”
That earned the smallest smile.
“I suspect that would be difficult.”
“Good.”
Noah whispered loudly, “Dad likes her.”
Vincent looked at his son.
“Eat.”
Noah grinned.
Something shifted between Vincent and me over the next two weeks.
Not romance.
Not yet.
It began with small things.
He brought home the exact tea I liked after seeing me drink it once.
I learned he hated cinnamon.
He learned I read mystery novels when anxious.
I discovered he checked Noah’s bedroom every night before going to sleep, even if he came home at two in the morning.
He discovered I couldn’t sleep through thunderstorms.
Neither of us discussed that one.
The first real argument came when I found out Vincent had assigned security to me.
Two men.
Twenty-four hours.
“You said I could make my own decisions.”
“You can.”
“Then remove them.”
“No.”
“That sounds like you making a decision for me.”
“That sounds like me refusing to let Tony put you in a car.”
I glared.
“I spent three months surviving without you.”
“And almost got taken from a restaurant.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is exactly the point.”
We stood in his office.
Noah was at school.
Teresa had wisely disappeared.
“You don’t own me.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Something flashed in his eyes.
He stepped closer, then deliberately stopped with several feet still between us.
“I have never once said you belong to me.”
“No. You just decide where I go and who follows me.”
“I decide what happens inside my security perimeter.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It is not convenient.”
His voice dropped.
“It is exhausting.”
I stared at him.
“Then stop.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He answered too quickly.
“Because Noah cares about you.”
The words hurt more than they should have.
I nodded.
“Right.”
Vincent’s expression shifted.
“Emma.”
“No. That’s fair.”
I turned toward the door.
His voice stopped me.
“And because I do.”
I froze.
The room went completely silent.
I turned.
Vincent looked almost irritated that he had said it.
“You care about me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
I crossed my arms.
“So what does that mean?”
“It means I will not pretend your safety is irrelevant to me just because admitting otherwise makes things complicated.”
I stared at him.
There was something almost brutal about the honesty.
I had spent years around people who lied beautifully.
Vincent told the truth like it inconvenienced him.
“I still hate the security.”
“I know.”
“Can I have one guard?”
“No.”
“Vincent.”
“One visible. One discreet.”
I sighed.
“That is still two.”
“You’re good at math.”
I almost threw a paperweight at him.
Three days later, Tony made his move.
Not against me.
Against Bellarosa.
Someone broke the front windows at two in the morning.
Nothing was stolen.
They spray-painted one word across the brick wall.
LIAR.
Rosa called me crying.
I arrived before sunrise with Vincent’s security behind me.
The sight of shattered glass made something inside me go quiet.
Rosa stood in the doorway wrapped in a cardigan.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
She grabbed my hands.
“For what?”
“This happened because of me.”
“No.”
“They were looking for me.”
“And does that make you responsible for what criminals do?”
I couldn’t answer.
Rosa squeezed harder.
“You listen to me. I am sixty-eight years old. I survived a husband who snored like a tractor, three teenagers, kidney stones, and forty years of restaurant customers who think marinara sauce is a personality. I am not scared of spray paint.”
I laughed through tears.
She looked over my shoulder.
Vincent stood near the curb.
Rosa’s expression changed.
“Is that him?”
“Who?”
“The handsome problem.”
I nearly choked.
“He is not—”
“Emma.”
“What?”
“I may be old. I am not blind.”
Vincent walked toward us.
Rosa lifted her chin.
“You Moretti?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you bring trouble to my restaurant?”
“No.”
“Can you remove trouble from my restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She pointed at the broken glass.
“Start sweeping.”
I stared.
Vincent stared.
Rosa handed him a broom.
For one unbelievable moment, Vincent Moretti—the man rumored to control half the waterfront contracts in the city—looked confused.
Then he took it.
I laughed so hard I had to turn away.
By eight o’clock, the windows were being replaced.
By ten, Bellarosa reopened.
By noon, Claire called.
“We found the notary.”
My stomach tightened.
“What notary?”
“The one who supposedly witnessed your father sign the property transfer.”
“And?”
“He died two years before the document was executed.”
I sat down.
“So the paperwork is definitely fake.”
“Very fake.”
“Can we prove Regina did it?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“There’s another problem.”
“What?”
“The shell company that bought the hardware store transferred the property again.”
“To whom?”
Claire hesitated.
“Tony Valenti.”
I looked toward Vincent.
He was standing across the room speaking with Marco.
He saw my face and immediately ended the conversation.
“What happened?”
I put the phone on speaker.
Claire continued.
“The property is currently held by a company connected to Tony. If we invalidate the original transfer, everything after it may collapse.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“So Tony needs Emma to stop the challenge.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“If she signs a settlement acknowledging the original transfer.”
I felt sick.
“That’s why they wanted me.”
Claire answered softly.
“Yes.”
“And Regina?”
“Probably promised Tony she could make you sign.”
My whole life suddenly made terrible sense.
The threats.
The pressure.
The attempts to isolate me.
This had never been about fifty thousand dollars.
It was about seven hundred thousand.
Maybe more.
Vincent walked to the window.
“We need the original records.”
Claire sighed.
“They’ll be hard to get.”
“Where?”
“Tony’s attorney’s office likely has copies.”
Vincent’s silence made me nervous.
“No.”
He turned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something illegal.”
“How can you tell?”
“You have an illegal face.”
His mouth twitched.
“I do not have an illegal face.”
“You absolutely do.”
Claire laughed over the phone.
I pointed at Vincent.
“We do this legally.”
“We will.”
“Promise.”
He looked at me.
“Pinky?”
I stared at him.
Then laughed despite myself.
That evening, Noah sat beside me on the library floor while I sorted through my father’s old records.
Most had been recovered from storage.
Receipts.
Tax forms.
Photographs.
Birthday cards.
Then I found a letter.
My name was written on the front in Dad’s handwriting.
My hands started shaking.
I opened it.
Emma,
If you’re reading this, I probably waited too long to say something important.
Home is not a building.
Home is where you are allowed to be yourself without fear.
Do not stay anywhere that asks you to become smaller so someone else can feel bigger.
You have always been stronger than you think.
Love,
Dad
I pressed the letter to my mouth.
Noah leaned against me.
“Are you sad?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“My dad wrote this.”
“Where is he?”
“He died.”
Noah was silent.
Then he took my hand.
“My mom died too.”
I looked at him.
Vincent had never spoken about Noah’s mother.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t remember her much.”
He thought for a moment.
“Dad does.”
My eyes moved toward the library door.
Vincent stood there.
I didn’t know how long he had been listening.
Noah ran to him.
“Emma’s dad wrote her a letter.”
Vincent looked at the paper in my hands.
“That’s good.”
“It hurts.”
Noah said it simply.
Vincent’s eyes met mine.
“Yes.”
His voice was quiet.
“Good things can hurt too.”
That night, after Noah went to bed, Vincent found me on the terrace.
“You never talk about her,” I said.
He knew exactly who I meant.
“Isabella.”
“Noah’s mother?”
He nodded.
“What happened?”
“Car accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“How old was Noah?”
“Eleven months.”
My chest tightened.
“You raised him alone.”
“With Teresa, Marco, half the house, and an unreasonable number of nannies he fired.”
“Why did he fire them?”
“One tried to throw away his stuffed dinosaur.”
“Understandable.”
Vincent smiled faintly.
Then the smile disappeared.
“I wasn’t good after Isabella died.”
“You were grieving.”
“I was angry.”
“At who?”
“Everyone.”
He looked out over the dark lawn.
“I thought being feared meant being safe. Then I learned fear doesn’t stop accidents.”
I watched him.
“Is that why you’re so protective of Noah?”
“Yes.”
“And everyone else?”
His gaze shifted to me.
“Not everyone.”
The air changed.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I stayed.
Vincent stepped closer.
Slowly.
Giving me time to move.
I didn’t.
His hand lifted, then stopped before touching my face.
“Emma.”
My heart pounded.
“Yes?”
A car horn sounded at the front gate.
The moment shattered.
Marco emerged through the terrace door.
His face was grim.
“Vincent.”
Vincent turned.
“What?”
“Regina’s here.”
My blood went cold.
Marco looked at me.
“She says Tony is going to kill her.”