Chapter 6 - The Long Island EstateThe Moretti estate in Gold Coast, Long Island, was an imposing, neo-classical limestone fortress surrounded by twenty-foot wrought-iron gates, manicured gardens, and fifty armed guards patrolling the perimeter.
For three weeks, Elara lived inside a golden sanctuary.
Her private suite on the second floor was larger than her entire A-frame cabin, complete with a fireplace, a terrace overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and a walk-in closet filled with designer clothes she had never dreamed of touching.
Yet, she refused to play the role of a helpless guest.
Every morning at 5:00 AM, while the grand estate was still dark and quiet, Elara would make her way down to the massive, commercial-grade kitchen in the basement. She tie a simple apron around her waist, turn on the industrial ovens, and bake.
The scent of fresh brioche, warm cinnamon, and crusty artisan bread soon filled the cold, marble halls of the Moretti mansion, transforming the clinical, intimidating fortress into something strangely warm and human.
One morning at 6:00 AM, Leandro stepped into the kitchen.
He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his hair neatly combed back, looking every bit the sovereign ruler of the East Coast underworld. But when he saw Elara standing near the wooden prep table, flour smearing her cheek, holding a tray of golden, steaming croissants, he stopped dead in his tracks.
His dark eyes softened with an emotion his guards had never seen in thirty-five years.
“You are supposed to be resting, Elara,” Leandro murmured, walking slowly into the room, his heavy shoes clicking softly against the tile.
“I don't rest by sitting in velvet chairs, Leandro,” she replied, offering a faint, playful smirk as she set the tray down. “Baking is how I keep my sanity. Besides... your security team was looking gaunt. I think Marco gained three pounds from my berry tarts this week.”
Leandro reached out, his long thumb gently wiping a spot of white flour off her cheekbone. His touch was unexpectedly tender, sending a warm, sweet shiver straight to her heart.
“Marco told me the men are ready to die for you,” Leandro said softly, his thumb lingering against her warm skin. “Not because I command them to... but because you bring them warm bread at four in the morning.”
Elara looked up into his gray eyes, her breath catching in her throat as the intense, magnetic pull between them tightened until the rest of the world faded away.
“Leandro...” she whispered, resting her small hand over his wrist. “When does this end? When do I get to know if I’m a guest... or a prisoner?”
Leandro closed the distance between them, wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his broad chest. His breathing was warm against her lips.
“You were never a prisoner, Elara,” Leandro swore softly, his voice thick with deep, unreserved devotion. “You are the only person in this world who holds power over me. Tomorrow, the Commission meets in Manhattan to finalize the restructuring of the family. Once Dominic is permanently stripped of his title... I want you to stay. Not because of a debt. But because I cannot imagine this house without you.”
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Before Elara could answer, the kitchen double doors burst open.
Marco rushed inside, his face pale, holding an encrypted tablet. “Boss! We have a breach at the southern gate! Dominic’s loyalists just detonated a charge near the harbor entrance—they’re inside the perimeter!”
