Chapter 2 - The Fortress on Gold CoastThe heavy armored door slammed shut with an airtight THUD, sealing out the sounds of the city.
The drive from Brooklyn to the Gold Coast of Long Island took forty-five minutes in complete, heavy silence. I sat in the heated leather rear seat, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, my hazel eyes staring out the dark-tinted windows as the city lights gave way to winding, tree-lined coastal roads.
At 2:15 AM, the Maybach slowed, turning through massive, gothic iron security gates into the vast estate of the Moretti family.
The estate looked like a medieval stone fortress disguised as a billionaire’s palace. Soaring granite arches were illuminated by warm halogen lamps, surrounded by twelve-foot brick walls, infrared security cameras, and broad-shouldered men in tailored black suits carrying concealed automatic weapons.
When the car stopped in the grand stone courtyard, Leo opened my door, offering his gloved hand with surprising, polite deference.
"This way, Miss Bellamy," Leo guided me up the grand marble steps.
The grand foyer was warm, firelit, and filled with the scent of cedarwood, fresh white lilies, and old leather. A sweeping marble double staircase rose to the upper suites, while a roaring stone fireplace warmed the central hall.
Standing near the fireplace, holding a crystal tumbler of thirty-year-old scotch, was Adrian Moretti.
He had removed his suit jacket. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing corded muscle and a dark, intricate tattoo winding around his left wrist.
His dark gray eyes turned slowly toward the foyer, locking onto me as I stepped across the Persian rug.
Up close, without the dim lighting of the bar, he was breathtakingly severe. Thirty-six years old, six-foot-three, with a sharp, carved jawline, silver-threaded dark hair swept back from his temples, and an aura of absolute, sovereign authority that made the vast room feel instantly smaller.
His eyes moved deliberately over my figure—taking in my messy dark hair, my simple jeans, my full curves, and the fierce, unyielding pride in my posture that refused to let me cringe.
"Miss Bellamy," Adrian spoke. His deep baritone was a smooth, velvet rumble that vibrated through the quiet hall. "You didn't run."
"Where would I run, Mr. Moretti?" I answered flatly, keeping my voice steady despite the frantic hammering of my heart against my ribs. "You own half the city. If you wanted me dead, I’d already be in the East River."
A faint, breathtaking twitch appeared at the corner of his severe mouth.
He set his crystal glass down on the mantelpiece, taking two slow, unhurried steps toward me until he stood three feet away.
"You kissed me for five hundred dollars, Mara," Adrian stated flatly. "Your coworkers made a bet because they thought a plus-size waitress wouldn't dare touch the man sitting in the corner."
My cheeks burned with an intense, sudden heat, but I held his gaze without flinching. "I didn't take the bet because of my ego, Mr. Moretti. I took it because my seventeen-year-old brother needs physical therapy, my rent is past due, and forty-three dollars doesn't buy groceries in New York."
Adrian went completely motionless. His dark gray eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter, searching every line of my face with a terrifying, razor-sharp intensity.
"Your brother," Adrian murmured softly. "Toby Bellamy. Hit-and-run six months ago on 4th Avenue. Driver was never caught."
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My stomach dropped into a bottomless chasm. "You... you looked up my family in forty-five minutes?"
"I look up everyone who touches me, Mara," Adrian revealed, his baritone dropping into a quiet, intimate register that sent a shiver down my spine. "And starting tonight... your brother's medical bills are paid in full."
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