Chapter 3 - The Flight to Boston
At 5:00 A.M., the sky over Chicago was a heavy, slate-gray sheet of ice and fog.
A black armored SUV carried us through the private entrance of Midway Airport. I sat in the plush leather backseat, wrapped in a heavy wool coat Luca’s head housekeeper, Mrs. Carter, had handed me before we left the mansion. The coat was expensive—far nicer than anything I had ever owned—and it smelled faintly of cedar and expensive perfume.
Luca sat beside me, reviewing a thick stack of printed financial dossiers under the warm glow of an overhead reading light. Daniel, his head of security, sat in the front passenger seat, occasionally glancing at the side mirrors with practiced vigilance.
"Your cheek looks better," Luca remarked quietly without looking up from his papers.
I touched the foundation makeup I had carefully applied over the yellowing bruise that morning. "It still aches when I smile, but Dr. Harris gave me an anti-inflammatory salve."
"Good." Luca turned a page. "When we land in Boston, we go straight to the First National Bank on Congress Street. My former wife's safe-deposit box is registered under her maiden name, Elena Vance. Mercer was scheduled to meet her near the harbor at noon today to deliver the fake photographs."
"Are we stopping him?" I asked.
Luca looked at me, his dark eyes glittering with a dangerous intelligence. "No. We let him deliver them."
I blinked. "You're letting him give her the photographs?"
"If Mercer delivers the photographs, Elena will panic," Luca explained smoothly. "She will believe I am cheating on Vanessa—or rather, that I have been carrying on a double life. She will immediately go to the bank to check on her insurance policy: the ledgers. And when she opens that vault, we will be waiting."
I looked out the tinted window as the SUV pulled onto the tarmac beside a gleaming Gulfstream jet. "What if she burns them on the spot?"
"She won't," Luca said confidently. "Elena is a pragmatist. She kept those ledgers for four years without using them because she knew they were her ultimate bargaining chip. She won't destroy her only protection until she confirms the threat."
He closed his folder and turned his full attention to me. "During this trip, Olivia, you are not my servant. You are my personal secretary. You speak when I tell you to speak. You observe everything. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Moretti."
"Luca," he corrected gently. "When we are outside Chicago, you call me Luca. It avoids unnecessary attention."
My tongue felt heavy trying to form his first name. "Yes... Luca."
We boarded the private jet. It was my first time flying on a private plane—or flying at all in five years. The interior was lined with cream leather, polished mahogany tables, and soft carpet.
As the jet roared down the runway and lifted off into the cloud cover, the pressure change made my injured cheek throb again. I winced slightly, closing my eyes against the chair's headrest.
A moment later, I felt a warm touch beside my hand.
I opened my eyes. Luca had placed a warm cup of tea with lemon and honey on the small table next to my seat, along with a small silver box of prescription painkillers.
"Drink," he ordered softly. "We have a two-hour flight. I need you sharp when we land."
"Thank you," I murmured, taking the tea. The warmth soaked into my cold fingers. "Luca... can I ask you something?"
He rested his head back, watching me through hooded eyes. "Go ahead."
"Why did you marry Vanessa in the first place? If you didn't trust her..."
Luca let out a long, slow breath that looked like smoke in the dim cabin light. "In my world, Olivia, marriage is rarely about love. The Bellini family controls the shipping logistics through the Port of Montreal. A union between the Moretti family and the Bellini family was meant to secure a multi-million-dollar trade corridor without bloodshed."
He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Vanessa appeared charming, refined, and completely disconnected from her family's dirtier operations. But three months ago, I noticed discrepancies in our event accounting. Small things—unaccounted cash withdrawals, strange visitors to the estate under the guise of wedding coordinators."
"She was planning this from the start," I realized.
"She didn't want to be a mob boss's wife," Luca said coldly. "She wanted to be the mob boss. With those ledgers, she could force me to sign over controlling shares of my legitimate real estate holdings, effectively stripping me of my legal wealth while leaving me vulnerable to federal prosecution."
I shuddered. "She's ruthless."
"She is foolish," Luca corrected sternly. "Ruthless people calculate every outcome. Foolish people assume their targets are blind."
He reached out, his long fingers gently brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from my injured cheek, tucking it behind my ear with an unexpected, breathtaking gentleness. His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second against my jaw before he pulled his hand back.
May you like
"Sleep for an hour, Olivia," he whispered. "The storm is coming, and I need you standing beside me when it hits."
I closed my eyes, the warmth of the tea and the soft hum of the jet engines pulling me under. And for the first time in nine months, despite the swelling on my face and the danger swirling around us, I felt completely safe.
