Chapter 4 - The Arrival of Julian MorettiJulian Moretti.
The thirty-six-year-old Chief Executive Officer of Moretti Global Infrastructure—a man whose authority commanded European shipping fleets, international port networks, and private equity trusts.
He was also the man my father had partnered with five years ago before my father’s passing, and the man who had spent three years attempting to reach me while I lived quietly in London completing my master’s degree in maritime law.
Two minutes later, the grand double mahogany doors of the master stateroom were pushed open.
Julian Moretti stepped inside.
He wore an immaculate, bespoke dark tuxedo. At six-foot-two, his broad frame commanded the entire room, his carved jawline set, his dark hair slightly windblown from the harbor breeze, and his storm-gray eyes holding an intense, white-hot fire that made my breath hitch in my chest.
Behind him stood two of his senior security officers, who remained outside the threshold, closing the double doors behind him.
Julian didn't look at the mahogany paneling, the fireplace, or Rachel Vance.
His storm-gray eyes locked onto my face.
He took three long, deliberate strides across the plush carpet, stopping two feet from where I sat on the velvet sofa. His gaze swept over my cashmere sweater, my pale cheeks, and my dark hair falling in soft waves over my shoulders.
"Elena," Julian rasped out, his deep, rumbling baritone shaking with a raw, agonizing emotion he didn't try to hide.
He dropped flat onto one knee right on the plush carpet before my sofa, his broad, calloused hand reaching out to gently, reverently cover mine on the velvet cushion.
"Julian..." I whispered, my hazel eyes searching his face. "What are you doing here? You were supposed to be in Geneva for the European Infrastructure Summit."
"I was in Geneva," Julian answered softly, his thumb gently brushing across the back of my hand, his warmth seeping straight through my skin. "Until my intelligence detail notified me twenty minutes ago that Cassandra Vale had touched a single strand of your hair on this yacht."
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His jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched along his cheek. The lethal, terrifying aura of a global syndicate Don flared in his storm-gray eyes for a fraction of a second before softening into pure, unshakeable devotion as he looked into my eyes.
"If I had been on that deck two hours ago, Elena," Julian promised in an ice-cold whisper, "Arthur Vale and his daughter would not have walked down that gangway."
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