Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of Belmont Estate
The rain lashed violently against the tinted windows of the armored Mercedes as it swept through the wrought-iron gates of the Belmont estate. The sprawling limestone mansion sat atop a private ridge overlooking the lake, surrounded by ancient oaks that bent like weeping giants in the gale. Inside, the cabin was dead silent except for the low purr of the engine and Sophia's soft, exhausted breathing as she drifted to sleep against Dr. Benton’s shoulder in the back row of seats.
Luca sat across from me in the spacious passenger compartment, his expression an impenetrable fortress. Yet, every few seconds, his eyes flicked toward me, checking to ensure I hadn't vanished into thin air.
"You live on the South Side," Luca stated quietly, breaking the heavy silence. It wasn't a question.
"A small apartment above a bakery on 47th," I replied, keeping my hands folded tightly in my lap. My server uniform felt entirely out of place against the plush leather interior and the suffocating wealth surrounding us. "I work two jobs. Catering on weekends, administrative work for a logistics firm during the week."
"Why didn't you go to the press three years ago?" Luca asked, his voice devoid of judgment, driven purely by analytical curiosity. "If you received a threatening letter claiming to be from me, most people would have gone straight to a reporter or an attorney to protect themselves."
I looked out the window, watching streaks of rainwater dissolve the city lights into a smear of neon. "Because I knew who you were, Mr. Moretti. Everyone in Chicago knows the name. When a man like you wants someone to disappear, or wants a message delivered, courts and reporters don't keep you safe—they just give you a front-row seat to your own funeral. I figured the safest thing I could do was keep my head down, keep working, and hope that one day Sophia was okay."
Luca let out a dark, humorless chuckle that sounded like stones grinding together. "A sensible survival instinct. But you misjudged me. I am ruthless with my enemies, Hannah. But I take care of my debts. And nobody—*nobody*—gets to interfere with a debt as heavy as the one I owe you."
The car glided to a smooth halt beneath the grand portico of the mansion. Before the driver could even put the vehicle in park, the heavy oak front doors swung open. A pair of housekeepers and an elderly butler stood waiting in the brightly lit foyer, their faces pale with anxiety as they saw Sophia being carefully lifted out by Dr. Benton and two guards.
Luca stepped out first, offering his hand to help me down from the high floor of the van. His gloved fingers were warm, firm, and surprisingly gentle as they caught my hand.
"Welcome to my home, Hannah," he said softly, holding my gaze a second longer than necessary before releasing me. "Tonight, you stay here. Tomorrow morning, we find out who signed my name to that letter."
Inside, the mansion was a masterpiece of old-world elegance and modern security. Massive stone fireplaces, dark mahogany wainscoting, and priceless oil paintings lined the cavernous hallways. Yet, despite the grandeur, an oppressive chill hung in the air—the lingering ghost of a tragedy that had nearly shattered this family three years ago.
Dr. Benton wheeled Sophia—who threw a dramatic, sleepy protest about wanting to walk—down the east corridor toward the private pediatric recovery suite. Luca led me into a massive, wood-paneled study dominated by a mahogany desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
He poured two glasses of amber whiskey from a heavy crystal decanter on a side table and handed one to me. I took it, though I didn't drink.
"Drink," he commanded softly. "You're shaking."
I took a small sip. The liquor burned a fiery trail down my throat, grounding me against the surreal whirlwind of the evening. "Your daughter is remarkable," I said, staring into the golden liquid. "The doctors told you she might never walk unassisted."
May you like
"They told me she would spend her life in a chair, yes," Luca said, walking over to stand behind his massive desk, staring out the rain-slicked window into the dark gardens. "They didn't account for her stubbornness. Or for the fact that she spent three years dreaming of the woman who pulled her out of the deep." He turned back to face me, his dark eyes burning with an intense, unsettling focus. "Tell me everything about that night at Ashwood Bridge. Every detail."
---
