Chapter 3 - The Fortress in the Hills
The estate in Lake Como had belonged to my grandmother, far removed from the asphalt kingdoms and concrete piers of the American syndicate. It was surrounded by terraced vineyards and high stone walls that had stood for three centuries. Two weeks after the Castellano gala, this was where I woke up to the smell of lemon trees and mountain air, far away from Victor Moretti’s shadow.
I wasn't hiding. A woman who controls the trust deeds to seventy million dollars of untraceable offshore assets does not hide; she simply chooses her company.
Marco, an old family retainer who had served my father before his death, brought a silver tray of tea and fresh figs to the terrace. ""He's at the gate again, Signora,"" Marco said quietly, his weathered face showing neither approval nor disapproval. ""He arrived on the early flight from Milan.""
I took a slow sip of the chamomile tea. ""Is he alone?""
""Two men in the car, but he is standing at the perimeter alone. He has been there since sunrise.""
""Let him wait another hour,"" I said. ""The morning sun is good for patience.""
Victor was not a man built for waiting. In our world, when Victor Moretti arrived at a door, it was opened immediately, usually with trembling hands and profuse apologies. Making him stand on the gravel lane outside an iron gate while Italian songbirds chirped in the olive groves was a small, necessary lesson in humility.
At ten o’clock, I finally nodded to Marco.
Ten minutes later, Victor walked onto the stone terrace. He looked different. The immaculate, razor-sharp styling of his tailored three-piece suits was gone. He wore a simple dark sweater, sleeves pushed up over his forearms, dark circles bruised beneath his eyes, and the faint stubble of several sleepless nights shadowing his jaw.
He stopped five feet from my wicker chair, looking down at me. My belly was more pronounced now, rounded and full, resting beneath a loose white linen dress. His eyes dropped to it instantly, a flicker of something ancient and raw passing across his expression.
""You look well, Elena,"" he said, his voice surprisingly hoarse.
""I sleep through the night here,"" I said, gesturing to the empty chair across the table. ""Sit down, Victor. You look like a man who hasn't seen a bed in ten days.""
He took the seat, leaning his forearms on his knees, watching me with an intensity that felt heavy. ""Dimitri Volkov surrendered the western territory yesterday. The Castellanos brokered the settlement. The Volkovs are entirely out of the city. Svetlana is on a cargo vessel bound for Vladivostok. She will never set foot on this continent again.""
""I know,"" I said calmly. ""Don Castellano’s sister called me yesterday afternoon. We had a lovely conversation about her garden.""
Victor let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head. ""Of course she did. You have half the commission answering your phone calls while I spent seventy-two hours negotiating with assault rifles.""
""Information is cleaner than gunpowder, Victor. I told you that three years ago.""
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""I didn't listen,"" he admitted bluntly. The admission hung between us like a physical object. In all our years together, through hostile takeovers, family rivalries, and internal betrayals, Victor had never once admitted to being wrong. ""I was an arrogant fool, Elena. I let an outsider play on my vanity because she praised the things I wanted praised, while you... you saw every flaw in my armor.""
""Seeing your flaws didn't mean I was your enemy,"" I said softly, looking out over the blue waters of the lake. ""It meant I was the only person keeping you alive.""
