Chapter 3 - The Gates of Lake Success
The Moretti estate was a grand stone fortress surrounded by high wrought-iron fences and towering oak trees. As the black sedan glided through the electronic gates, Harper leaned her head against the tinted glass. Armed men walked the perimeter with trained attack dogs, their coats dark against the lush green lawns.
When the car stopped before the main house, Roman stepped out and opened Harper’s door himself.
“It looks like a prison,” Harper remarked, adjusting the strap of her battered duffel bag.
“It is a fortress,” Roman corrected, taking her bag despite her faint protest. “There is a difference.”
Inside, the foyer was lined with marble floors, grand oil paintings, and towering arched windows. Beatrice appeared at the top of the grand staircase, wearing an elegant silk dress. When her eyes fell on Harper, her entire face brightened. She descended the stairs with surprising speed, sweeping Harper into a warm, scented embrace.
You came! Beatrice signed rapidly, her eyes sparkling.
I came, Harper signed back, smiling. Your son offered me enough money to buy a small island.
Beatrice scoffed playfully, shooting a sharp look at Roman. He buys everything with brute force or cash. He lacks finesse.
Roman watched their hands move, his eyes shifting between them with mild frustration. “What is she saying?”
Beatrice looked at Roman, then turned to Harper and signed: Tell him I am telling you about his embarrassing childhood photos.
Harper bit her lip to suppress a grin. “She’s praising your generosity.”
Roman raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Lying to your employer on your first day is a dangerous strategy, Miss Hayes.”
“I work for your mother,” Harper pointed out gently. “Technically, she’s my employer.”
A faint, almost imperceptible twitch appeared at the corner of Roman’s mouth. “Smart. Dangerous, but smart.”
Over the next three days, Harper settled into the rhythm of the estate. Her cottage was luxurious—a light-filled two-bedroom home near the gardens. During the day, she walked with Beatrice through the conservatories, helped her read correspondence, and spent hours in lively signed conversations about literature, art, and the history of the Moretti family.
Harper quickly realized that Beatrice was brilliant, sharp-witted, and deeply lonely. Roman’s world was violent and complex, leaving Beatrice isolated in a golden cage where few had the patience to learn her language.
On the fourth evening, while sitting in the private courtyard, Beatrice stopped signing mid-sentence. Her eyes drifted toward the second-floor balcony where Roman stood on a phone call, his face dark with rage as he barked quiet commands into the receiver.
Beatrice tapped Harper’s knee. He carries too much.
He is protecting you, Harper signed.
May you like
He is burning himself alive, Beatrice countered sadly. Since my husband died, Roman believes he must be stone. Stone does not feel, but stone also breaks under enough pressure.
Harper watched Roman on the balcony. He looked powerful, imposing, and undeniably solitary. As if sensing her gaze, Roman turned. His dark eyes met Harper’s across the distance, holding them for a long, breathless moment before he ended his call and walked back inside.
