Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary on Fifth
The Moretti estate on Fifth Avenue was an ancient limestone fortress hidden behind black iron gates and manicured ivy.
By two in the morning, the rain had settled into a steady, rhythmic hiss against the leaded glass windows of the private library. A roaring fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting long, amber shadows across towering shelves of leather-bound books.
A private physician had already cleaned and stitched Leo’s split lip, wrapping his bruised ribs before tucking the exhausted, weeping boy into an upstairs guest suite under Dante’s personal guard.
Downstairs, Harper stood by the tall arched windows, clutching a porcelain mug of chamomile tea with both hands.
She wore an oversized navy cashmere sweater that Lorenzo’s housekeeper had provided, the cuffs rolled twice to clear her small wrists.
Footsteps echoed softly on the parquet floor.
Lorenzo walked into the library, having shed his overcoat and suit jacket. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the faint gray lines of old tactical scars.
He held two crystal glasses and a bottle of vintage bourbon, setting them on the low mahogany table between two velvet armchairs.
“He’s sleeping,” Lorenzo said, his voice quiet in the vast room. “The doctor gave him a mild sedative. There are no fractures.”
Harper closed her eyes, letting out a shuddering breath that seemed to pull the tension straight out of her spine.
“Why didn’t you let your men beat him?” she asked softly, turning to face him. “He broke into your vault, Mr. Moretti. In your world, people disappear for far less.”
Lorenzo poured an inch of amber liquid into his glass, watching the firelight dance through the crystal.
“Because your brother is an idiot, Harper, but he isn’t a traitor,” Lorenzo replied, walking over to stand three paces from her. “He didn't steal for greed. He stole because he thought he was protecting his sister.”
Harper looked down at her tea, a faint, bitter smile touching her lips.
“I’ve spent four years trying to keep him alive,” she murmured. “Ever since our parents died in that highway accident on I-95. I gave up a full scholarship in Boston so I could keep the apartment in Queens and make sure he finished high school.”
“And who protected you?” Lorenzo asked.
The question caught Harper completely off balance. She lifted her head, her breath hitching as she met his steady, searching gaze.
No one had asked her that in four years.
Not her landlord, not her professors, not her coworkers at the Obsidian, and certainly not her brother.
“I protect myself,” she whispered, her chin lifting with that same stubborn, beautiful pride that had caught his attention the night before.
Lorenzo stepped closer, closing the distance between them until Harper could smell the cedarwood and rich tobacco clinging to his skin.
At fifty-eight, he was more than twice her age, weathered by thirty years of violence, loss, and cold calculations. Yet looking at her, the frozen emptiness that had defined his existence since Sofia’s death seemed to fracture and crumble into dust.
“A woman shouldn’t have to carry the weight of an entire world on two bare shoulders,” Lorenzo said softly.
He reached out his right hand, his large, calloused thumb gently brushing away a solitary tear that had escaped down her cheek.
His touch was warm, steady, and reverent—completely devoid of the predatory hunger Frankie Lombardi had shown in the restaurant.
Harper didn’t pull away.
Instead, her eyes widened slightly, her breath fluttering as a strange, dizzying heat rushed through her veins.
Before she could speak, the library doors swung open with a muffled thud.
May you like
Dante stood at the entrance, his face grim, holding a secure satellite phone.
“Boss,” Dante announced, his voice tight. “Sal Lombardi is on the line. He says Frankie went missing twenty minutes ago, and he’s holding us responsible.”
