Chapter 2 - The Price of ProtectionThe transition from the reeking, greasy back alley of the Brooklyn Italian restaurant to the tinted leather interior of a custom-built Maybach felt like stepping into another dimension.
The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and neon against the bulletproof glass as the car glided smoothly across the bridge toward Manhattan. Zach sat between Michael and me on the plush backseat, fast asleep with his head pillowed heavily against my lap, his tiny hand still tightly clutching my thumb.
I sat as rigid as a statue, acutely aware of the towering man sitting inches away from me.
Michael Moretti hadn't spoken a word since we left the restaurant. He had simply walked past Regina—who was currently sitting on the dirty pavement in handcuffs surrounded by three of Moretti’s silent men—without throwing a single glance her way. As for Tony’s enforcers, I hadn't seen them leave the kitchen, but I had a sickening feeling they wouldn't be bothering anyone in Brooklyn for a very long time.
“Your hand is still bleeding,” Michael’s deep voice broke the heavy silence of the cabin.
I jumped slightly, looking down at my knuckles where I had scraped them against the metal shelf in the storage room. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”
Without a word, Michael reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a clean, crisp linen handkerchief. He took my hand with surprising gentleness, his long, strong fingers wrapping around mine, and carefully wiped away the dried blood.
His touch was warm, commanding, and utterly intoxicating.
“You shouldn't have done that,” I whispered, staring down at our joined hands.
“Done what?”
“Rescued me. Or... whatever this is. Regina owes Tony fifty thousand dollars. If you interfere, they’re going to come after you, your company, your son—!”
Michael stopped wiping my hand. He looked up, his gray eyes flashing with a cold, predatory intensity that made my breath hitch.
“Let me make something crystal clear to you, Aurora,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, smooth as silk and sharp as glass. “Nobody comes after my son. And nobody touches what belongs to the Moretti name.”
“I don't belong to you,” I retorted, a sudden flash of pride overriding my fear. “I made a ridiculous pinky promise to a six-year-old in superhero pajamas because a witch was trying to sell me off to pay her poker debts. I am not your property.”
A slow, dangerous smile curved the corner of Michael’s mouth. It didn't reach his eyes, but it transformed his stern face into something dangerously handsome.
“Technically speaking,” Michael murmured, leaning in slightly so his breath brushed my ear, “you accepted a marriage proposal from the sole heir of the Moretti estate. In our family, contracts are binding. Even the ones made with pinkies.”
I stared at him, my mouth slightly open. “You can’t be serious. He’s six!”
“Zach is a very persuasive negotiator,” Michael replied smoothly, looking down at his sleeping son with a brief, softening flicker of genuine paternal warmth that humanized the monster the underworld whispered about. “And my son has exceptionally good taste.”
Before I could formulate a witty or terrified response, the Maybach swept through massive wrought-iron gates that swung open automatically, revealing a sprawling, ultra-modern glass and steel fortress perched on the cliffs overlooking the Hudson River.
It was a sanctuary disguised as a mansion. Guards in tactical gear patrolled the perimeter, and security cameras hummed silently from every corner.
The car glided into the underground garage, and the doors unlocked with a soft click.
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“Welcome home, Aurora,” Michael said quietly, opening his door.
As I carried Zach upstairs into a massive, warmly lit guest suite lined with velvet and mahogany, realizing that my life had completely derailed in less than two hours, one terrifying thought echoed in my mind: I just agreed to marry a mafia kingpin, and part of me didn't want to run away.
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