Chapter 2 - The Ride to GreenwichThe Maybach glided silently through the dark, rain-streaked streets of the city, moving toward the affluent, gated estates of Greenwich.
Adrian Moretti sat in the far corner of the plush leather seat, his long legs crossed, a crystal tumbler of amber scotch resting casually in his hand. He had removed his suit jacket, leaving him in a crisp white shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing the thick, dark ink of a geometric tattoo reaching up his neck.
Under the soft interior cabin lights, his profile was razor-sharp—a carved marble statue of dangerous, unyielding authority.
He didn't look at me for the first five minutes of the drive.
I sat pressed against the opposite door, my hands folded tightly in my lap, trying to control the uneven hitching of my breath. My mind raced with every horror story I had ever heard about the Moretti crime family: turf wars, missing rivals, shipping terminals seized overnight.
"You're shaking, Miss Bellamy," Adrian spoke, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate straight through the leather floorboards.
I swallowed hard, refusing to shrink back. "Most people would shake if they were pulled into a black car by a mafia boss at midnight."
Adrian slowly turned his head to look at me. His gray eyes were cold, calculating, and intensely focused, scanning my face, my dark hair damp from the rain, and the curve of my waist where my server apron was still tied.
"You didn't shake when you walked up to my booth," Adrian noted smoothly, taking a slow sip of his scotch. "You didn't hesitate when you put your hands on my shoulders. And you certainly didn't hesitate when you kissed me."
"I was desperate," I confessed, the raw truth slipping out before I could stop it. "And I didn't know who you were."
"And if you had known?" he asked, leaning forward slightly, his vast, broad frame casting a long shadow over my side of the car.
"I would have taken the shift at the diner instead," I retorted, holding his gaze.
A faint, fleeting smirk touched the corner of his lips before vanishing back into his severe expression.
"Five hundred dollars," Adrian said quietly. "That was the price your coworkers put on my head. A five-hundred-dollar dare for a plus-size waitress who needed rent money."
My cheeks flushed hot with sudden, burning embarrassment. "You looked into my bank account?"
"I look into everything that touches my life, Miss Bellamy," Adrian replied, setting his glass into the recessed holder. "Your name is Mara Bellamy. Twenty-eight years old. Former art history student at Northwestern before your parents died in a car accident three years ago. You work fifty hours a week between O'Malley's and a dry cleaner to support your younger brother, Leo, who suffers from nerve damage following the same accident."
He laid out my entire life—my struggles, my grief, my sacrifices—in four calm, precise sentences.
"Why am I here, Mr. Moretti?" I asked, my voice dropping into a quiet, steady line. "Are you going to punish me for a kiss?"
The Maybach pulled through a set of massive iron security gates, stopping outside a grand, stone estate surrounded by high walls and armed guards.
May you like
Adrian reached out, his long, broad fingers gently catching the edge of my apron string, pulling the knot loose with an effortless flick of his wrist.
"No, Miss Bellamy," Adrian murmured, his dark gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that took my breath away. "I brought you here because for the first time in five years... someone looked at me without fear in her eyes. And I have a proposition for you."
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