Chapter 3 - The Gilded Cage on Fifth Avenue
Before I could tear my wrist from his grasp, four plainclothes guards formed an impenetrable wall around the stage, shielding us from the flashing cameras of dinner guests who were already posting videos to social media.
Alessandro didn't give me time to retrieve my coat or say goodbye to the kitchen manager.
He led me straight through the private kitchen exit into a waiting armored Maybach idling in the dark alleyway behind the restaurant.
“Let go of me!” I demanded, shoving against his chest the moment the heavy doors slammed shut with a vault-like thud.
The partition between the passenger compartment and the driver rolled up automatically, sealing us inside a cocoon of leather and tinted glass.
Alessandro leaned back against the headrest, loosening his ruined silk tie with a slow, deliberate movement. The arrogance he had worn at dinner was completely gone, replaced by a dark, brooding intensity that filled every square inch of the vehicle.
“You’re going to give me an explanation right now,” I said, my voice shaking with adrenaline. “Why did you say my father's name?”
Alessandro didn't answer immediately. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a gold cigarette case, and stared at the engraved family crest on its lid.
“Mateo Russo was the only man in this hemisphere who taught that specific phrasing,” Alessandro murmured, his voice heavy with ancient weight. “He called it the Siren's Turn. He said it was designed to break a listener’s heart before they realized they were bleeding.”
My throat tightened. “He taught you that?”
“He taught my younger sister, Bianca,” Alessandro said, turning his head to look at me through the shadows of the car.
“Your sister?”
“She died ten years ago,” he replied, each syllable cold as granite. “The same week your father vanished into the river.”
A chill ran down my spine, freezing the breath in my lungs. “What happened to them, Alessandro?”
“That is a conversation for behind closed doors, Camila,” he answered softly. “Not inside a vehicle that can be monitored by half the intelligence agencies on the East Coast.”
The car glided up Fifth Avenue, pulling into the private subterranean courtyard of a massive limestone pre-war mansion overlooking Central Park.
Iron gates clanged shut behind us, locking the bustling noise of New York City outside.
Alessandro stepped out of the vehicle and extended his hand to help me down. I hesitated, looking at his broad palm, then stepped onto the pavement on my own two feet.
A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. “Pride. You certainly have his pride.”
Inside, the mansion was breathtaking: three-story marble foyers, sweeping spiral staircases, and antique European paintings hanging beneath subtle museum lighting.
An elderly woman dressed in a crisp black dress rushed down the stairs, carrying a folded linen towel.
“Mr. Moretti, we received your alert from Vetro Nero,” she said, her eyes widening as she noticed my stained waitress uniform.
“Nonna Rosa, this is Camila,” Alessandro said, resting a hand briefly on the small of my back. “Prepare the rose suite on the second floor. Have my personal tailor and the bridal consultants from Bergdorf Goodman here at eight sharp tomorrow morning.”
Nonna Rosa looked between us, her jaw slackening. “The... the rumors on the news are true? You announced a marriage?”
“I announced a public vow,” Alessandro replied firmly. “And in my world, breaking a vow is an invitation to war.”
He turned to face me in the center of the grand foyer, his silver-flecked eyes unyielding.
“You are going to marry me, Camila,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Not because of a spilled glass of wine. And not because of an aria.”
“Then why?” I challenged, stepping closer until our shadows merged on the marble.
May you like
Alessandro leaned down, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper near my ear.
“Because the men who murdered your father and my sister believe they buried that melody forever. And your voice tonight just painted a target directly onto your chest.”
