Chapter 5 - The Master Of The Villa
The Mercedes drove for nearly an hour, bypassing the crowded heart of Rome, winding its way north into the rugged, cypress-studded hills of the Umbrian countryside before turning through a set of massive iron gates draped in ancient ivy. Beyond the gates stood a sprawling, sixteenth-century stone villa that looked less like a modern criminal headquarters and more like a fortress frozen in time. Armed sentries stood at every corner, their assault rifles held with casual, terrifying familiarity. The van rolled smoothly down the cobblestone courtyard and came to a halt beneath a grand stone archway. Moretti opened the door himself, offering a polite, infuriatingly civil hand to help her out. Simona snatched her arm away, ignoring his assistance, and marched out onto the stones, her eyes blazing with fury. "Where is my son?" she demanded before Moretti could speak. "Where is Marco?" "Your sister and your son are currently being brought here," Moretti replied smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. "You will all be accommodated in the east wing of the villa. Comfortable rooms, private kitchen, round-the-clock security. You are guests of honor, Dottoressa. Provided you behave as such." "I am a prisoner!" "You are a savior," Moretti corrected firmly. "Now, please. Follow me. The Don is awake, and he is asking for you specifically." Simona wanted to refuse. She wanted to plant her feet in the dirt and dare them to drag her. But the thought of Marco—terrified, alone, waiting for an aunt who had been intercepted by ghosts—forced her feet to move. She followed Moretti through heavy carved oak doors into a vast, vaulted foyer lined with Renaissance paintings and marble busts that looked dangerously real. They ascended a sweeping double staircase, walked down a long, dimly lit corridor smelling of beeswax and old leather, and stopped outside a massive set of double doors guarded by two heavily armed men. Moretti pushed the doors open. The master bedroom was cavernous, bathed in the soft, golden light of afternoon sun streaming through tall French doors that opened onto a stone balcony overlooking the valley. In the center of the room stood an enormous mahogany four-poster bed. And propped up against a stack of white pillows, looking pale, exhausted, but frighteningly alert, was Gabriel. An IV pole stood beside the bed, pumping clear fluids into his left arm, and a team of two private surgeons in white coats were quietly packing up their instruments near the window. When the doctors cleared the room at Moretti’s silent nod, Gabriel turned his head slowly on the pillow. His slate-gray eyes found Simona standing in the doorway. He didn't smile. But the hard lines of his face softened just a fraction as he looked at her rumpled clothes, her blood-stained cuffs, and the absolute fury burning in her eyes. "You brought her here," Gabriel said, his voice a gravelly whisper that still commanded the room without effort. "She was trying to walk home to Trastevere, Don Gabriel," Moretti replied respectfully. "I deemed it... imprudent to allow her to wander the streets of Rome alone." Gabriel’s gaze returned to Simona. He motioned with his hand toward the edge of the mattress. "Close the door, Moretti. And leave us." Moretti bowed slightly and backed out of the room, clicking the heavy oak door shut behind him. Simona didn't move. She stood frozen in the center of the Persian rug, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. "You kidnapped me," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "You kidnapped me and my family because I saved your miserable life on a commercial airliner." "I did not kidnap you," Gabriel rasped, shifting slightly against the pillows with a wince as his stitched side pulled against the movement. "I relocated you. There is a war coming in Rome, Simona. Dante Rossi’s faction is moving against my inner circle. If you had walked out of Fiumicino alone, you would have been a target within the hour simply because you sat next to me for eight hours." "I don't care about your war!" she shouted, stepping closer to the bed, abandoning all professional or social decorum. "I care about my son! You had men threaten Marco! You used my five-year-old boy as leverage to drag me into your medieval fortress!" Gabriel went completely still. The gray in his eyes darkened into something sharp and dangerous. "Moretti threatened your son?" "He told me Marco was eating brioche at my sister's apartment!" Simona’s voice broke on a sob of pure, unadulterated terror. "He made it clear that if I didn't come quietly, my family would pay the price! What kind of monster are you?" Gabriel closed his eyes for a long, agonizing second, taking a slow, deep breath that made his jaw clench. When he opened them again, the anger was gone, replaced by a cold, lethal fury directed not at her, but at the man who had executed his orders. "Moretti is a pragmatist," Gabriel said quietly. "He crosses lines I forbid him to cross. That will be rectified before the sun sets." "Words don't bring my son back to safety!" Simona snapped, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "I want my son here, Gabriel. Now. Or I swear to God, I will pull your stitches out with my bare fingers right now." Gabriel stared at her for a long, quiet moment. He saw the fierce, motherly lioness standing before him—unafraid of his wealth, his guns, or his title. A slow, profound wave of admiration washed through his chest, mingling with the deep, aching pain in his side. He raised his right hand, pointing a single finger toward the open balcony doors. "Step outside, Simona," he whispered hoarsely. "Look down at the courtyard." Confused and wary, Simona turned, walked past the foot of the bed, and stepped out onto the sunlit stone balcony. Down below, entering through the iron gates, was a black SUV. The side door slid open. Her sister Chiara stepped out, looking pale and bewildered. And running ahead of her, clutching a small plastic toy dinosaur in his hand, was Marco. "Mama!" the little boy shouted, his voice carrying up clearly into the crisp Umbrian air as he spotted her leaning over the stone railing. Simona gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as tears broke free. She turned back toward the bedroom, her eyes wide with shock and confusion. Gabriel was propped up on one elbow, watching her through the open French doors with an expression that was impossible to read. "They are safe," Gabriel said softly as she rushed back into the room. "They will always be safe under my roof." He paused, letting the silence settle over the room like a heavy winter blanket. Then he looked at her, his voice dropping into a register so raw, so heavy with history, that it stole the breath right out of her lungs. "And as for your son, Simona... You should look closer at his birth certificate. Or better yet... ask yourself why you haven't seen his biological father in six years."
