Chapter 2 - The Contract
The interior of the black Escalade smelled of expensive leather, tobacco, and the faint, unmistakable scent of rain on wool. The heavy, bulletproof doors locked shut with a muffled mechanical click that sounded suspiciously like a cell door snapping into place.
I sat as far into the corner of the plush leather seat as I could manage, my wet coat dripping onto the pristine floor mat. Beside me, Ricardo Moretti sat motionless. He had removed his charcoal suit jacket, leaving him in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing thick, corded muscle and a dark, intricate tattoo of an ivy-wrapped dagger that snaked down his left wrist.
On his lap lay the ring he had just offered me. It wasn't an ordinary engagement ring. It was a massive, emerald-cut black diamond set in heavy platinum, glistening like a piece of polished obsidian under the faint glow of the streetlights outside.
"You haven't answered me, Maya," Ricardo said. His voice was a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards. "What are the rules?"
I swallowed hard, my throat feeling as dry as sandpaper despite the rain pouring outside. "You fired me. You had the restaurant manager throw my last paycheck onto the wet sidewalk. And now you're offering me a black diamond and a fake engagement?"
"I fired you because six hundred people in that dining room were watching you undermine my authority," Ricardo replied, his amber eyes completely devoid of warmth. "In my world, if a waitress speaks to me the way you did and walks away unscathed, it shows weakness. But if that same woman is my future wife—if she acted out of maternal instinct for my heir—it shows strength. It shows a family unit that cannot be broken."
"I am not your future wife," I whispered, clutching my purse against my chest like a shield.
"You are whatever I pay you to be," he countered coldly. He reached out with two fingers, taking the heavy black diamond ring, and set it on the small leather console between us. "My son, Matteo, has not spoken a word since his mother died eight months ago. He does not sleep for more than two hours at a time. He screams until his lungs bleed, and he rejects every high-priced nanny, pediatric specialist, and child psychologist in the state. Tonight, he took a glass of milk from a stranger because you looked at him like he was a human being instead of a ticking bomb."
He leaned closer, his broad shoulders blocking out the faint light from the window. The sheer physical presence of the man was overwhelming.
"Matteo needs a motherly figure to calm the storm in his head while I navigate a war," Ricardo continued, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "My enemies—the Russian syndicates in Brooklyn and the rogue captains within my own family—perceive my son's instability as a fatal flaw. They think I am distracted. They think I am vulnerable. A stable household, a devoted fiancée, and an heir who is quiet and protected closes that window of opportunity."
"And what do I get?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound composed. "Besides a target on my back?"
Ricardo pulled a thick, cream-colored envelope from his inner pocket and tossed it onto my lap.
"Inside that envelope is a cashier's check for five hundred thousand dollars," he said flatly. "It is yours the moment you put that ring on your finger. Upon the completion of one year—when the territory disputes are settled and Matteo is settled—you will receive an additional two million dollars, a clean identity certified by federal marshals I keep on my payroll, and a deed to a house anywhere in the country. Your rent debt disappears tonight. Your incomplete nursing school transcript will be wiped, and a full diploma from Columbia University will take its place."
I stared at the heavy envelope sitting on my wet lap. Five hundred thousand dollars. It was more money than my father had made in his entire lifetime as a mechanic. It was enough money to buy my freedom forever—to stop looking over my shoulder every time a black sedan slowed down near my apartment building.
"You mentioned my past," I said, looking up to meet his intense, unblinking gaze. "What do you know?"
"I know you left Philadelphia three years ago under a cloud of dust," Ricardo said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I know you changed your last name from Vance to Lin. I know you work two jobs, pay cash for everything, and don't own a single credit card or social media account. You are hiding from someone, Maya. Under my roof, under my name, nobody touches you. The Moretti name is an iron umbrella. As long as you stand beneath it, the rain cannot hit you."
It was a brilliant, terrifying trap. He wasn't just offering me money; he was offering me the one thing I had lacked for three agonizing years: absolute protection.
"What are the rules?" I asked again, my fingers slowly reaching out toward the heavy platinum band resting on the leather console.
Ricardo watched my hand with a look of quiet, calculated victory.
"Rule number one," he stated, his voice clipping each word with military precision. "You do not ask about my business. What happens in my office, at the docks, or in the backrooms of my clubs does not exist to you. Rule number two: You live in the east wing of the Moretti estate. You do not, under any circumstances, enter the west wing. The doors are locked for a reason. Rule number three: You will accompany me to public dinners, galas, and family gatherings. You will act devoted, graceful, and utterly enamored with me."
He paused, leaning back against his seat, his amber eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse jump.
"And rule number four, Maya," he added, his voice dropping an octave. "You can live under my roof. You can wear my ring. You can hold my son when he cries. But you must never, ever fall in love with me. I am not a husband. I am a Don. And the last woman who loved me ended up six feet beneath the soil in a pine box."
My hand froze for a split second over the ring. The warning was clear, stark, and utterly devoid of romance. It was a business transaction signed in shadows and sealed with blood.
"I don't fall in love with men who carry guns to dinner, Mr. Moretti," I said quietly.
I picked up the black diamond ring and slid it onto the ring finger of my left hand. It was cold, heavy, and fit as if it had been custom-molded for my skin.
May you like
Ricardo stared at the ring on my hand for a long moment, a ghost of a dark smirk touching the corner of his stern lips. He reached past me, tapping twice on the privacy glass separating us from the driver.
"Take us to the estate, Viktor," Ricardo ordered flatly. "My fiancée is coming home."
