Chapter 4 - The Dinner He Never Wanted
The following Monday, Dr. Vance spent two hours with Mason, reviewing X-rays, running scans, and declaring that a single corrective surgery would have him walking without a cane within six months.
When Hannah walked out of the medical center into the crisp autumn afternoon, she felt as if a physical boulder had been lifted from her chest. Mason was grinning like an idiot, clutching his schedule of appointments, repeatedly calling Dominic a guardian angel.
Hannah knew better. Dominic Moretti was many things, but he was no angel. He was a man surrounded by shadows, chased by demons she didn't yet understand.
That evening, she bypassed the Marlowe Theater and took a cab directly to the financial district, stopping before the towering glass facade of Moretti Global Enterprises. The building looked like an impenetrable fortress of steel and chrome.
Security stopped her in the lobby, but the moment she gave her name, the head guard’s demeanor changed instantly. She was escorted into a private elevator that bypassed seventy floors without stopping, opening directly into a massive penthouse office overlooking the glittering Philadelphia skyline.
Dominic was standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a glass of scotch, a phone pressed to his ear.
“Liquidate the shipping assets in Rotterdam,” Dominic was saying in a lethal, even cadence. “If Victor Rossi tries to contest the auction, remind him that I still possess the shipping manifests from 2021. He’ll fold.”
He hung up and turned around, sensing her presence before she even took a step onto the hardwood floor.
“Miss Cole,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “To what do I owe this breach of protocol?”
Hannah walked toward his massive glass desk. She wore a simple navy dress—the best one she owned—and carried a small plastic container wrapped in aluminum foil.
“I don't have corporate secrets or millions of dollars to pay you back,” she said, placing the container firmly on the glass.
Dominic looked down at the foil. “What is that?”
“Lemon bars,” she said defiantly. “Our mother’s recipe. Mason and I made them last night. They’re sweet, they’re slightly burned on the edges because our oven temperature dial is broken, and they are worth infinitely more than my pride.”
Dominic stared at the foil container as if she had placed a live grenade on his desk. Slowly, he walked over, set his scotch down, and peeled back the foil. He picked up a square dusted with powdered sugar, took a small bite, and chewed slowly.
“Well?” Hannah asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“They are entirely too sweet,” Dominic said deadpan.
Then, he took a second, larger bite and swallowed it.
“You haven’t had real dinner,” Dominic stated, wiping a speck of sugar from his finger.
“I had an apple at three.”
“Unacceptable.” Dominic grabbed his wool overcoat from the leather couch. “Luca is bringing the car around. We’re leaving.”
“I didn't come here for a date, Mr. Moretti.”
“Neither did I, Miss Cole. I am taking you to dinner because if you faint from malnutrition, my theater box will lack proper acoustic insulation on Thursday.”
He took her to an unassuming, family-run Italian restaurant tucked away in an alley off South Street. There were no reporters, no business executives, and no bodyguards inside—only an elderly Italian woman who kissed Dominic’s cheek and brought out platters of handmade pasta, fresh bread, and dark red wine.
Across the candlelit table, the armor Dominic wore began to dissolve. For the first time, he spoke about his past: how his father had built an empire through brutal back-alley deals, how his younger brother had been murdered by rivals twelve years ago in a botched kidnapping attempt at a public gala, and why he had isolated himself ever since.
“If you let people close,” Dominic said, his eyes darkened by old grief, “you give your enemies a target. Solitude is the only armor that never fails.”
Hannah reached across the white tablecloth, her fingers gently touching the back of his hand. His skin was warm, his knuckles scarred. He didn't pull away.
May you like
“Solitude isn’t armor, Dominic,” she whispered softly. “It’s just a prison cell where you hold the keys.”
For several seconds, Dominic only stared at her hand resting on his. When his fingers slowly turned over, clasping hers with quiet desperation, Hannah knew that the invisible boundary between them had vanished forever.
