Chapter 2 - The Arrival at JFKThe heavy wheels of the Boeing 737 struck the tarmac at John F. Kennedy International Airport with a loud, jarring thud, the reverse thrusters roaring as the aircraft slowed down along the wet runway.
Rain lashed against the oval windows, reflecting the amber lights of the terminal.
Throughout the fifteen-minute taxi toward the gate, Lily chatted happily about her pink backpack, her stuffed rabbit named Barnaby, and how her mommy had promised to take her to see the big green statue in the harbor.
I listened to every single word. I memorized the sound of her laugh, the way she wrinkled her nose when she was thinking, and the fierce, independent posture she assumed whenever she adjusted her seatbelt.
She was a Moretti. Through and through.
When the seatbelt sign finally extinguished with a sharp BEEP, I stood up, retrieving my heavy wool overcoat and Lily’s small pink backpack from the overhead bin.
Julie stepped into the aisle, her hands trembling as she reached for Lily's jacket. She looked at me with an agonizing mix of terror and deep, quiet guilt.
"Julian," Julie rasped out under the chatter of deplaning passengers. "You don't understand what happened five years ago. Naomi didn't run because she hated you. She ran because she was terrified."
"Terrified of what?" I asked, my baritone dropping into a low, dangerous register. "Terrified of me?"
Julie looked straight into my eyes. "Terrified of your mother."
My breath caught in my throat.
The air in my lungs went deathly cold.
Eleanor Moretti. The matriarch of the Moretti family—a woman who had spent forty years ensuring that our family's bloodline remained untouched by outsiders, a woman who controlled half the offshore trusts in Switzerland.
"Your mother found Naomi in Atlanta five years ago, Julian," Julie revealed in a frantic whisper as the passenger line began to move forward. "She walked into Naomi's design studio while you were in London. She showed Naomi photographs of what happens to 'civilian women' who get dragged into Moretti family business. She told Naomi that if she didn't disappear, the child inside her would never see the light of day."
A dark, blinding rage—cold, lethal, and absolute—bloomed behind my ribs.
My mother hadn't just arranged corporate marriages and managed legal trusts. She had hunted the woman I loved, threatened my unborn child, and forced Naomi to live in hiding for five years while I grieved in silence.
I didn't shout. I didn't smash my fist against the overhead bins.
I simply reached down, lifted four-year-old Lily into my broad arms, holding her small, warm frame against my chest, feeling her tiny hands wrap around my neck.
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"Julian... what are you doing?" Julie gasped.
"I'm taking my family home, Julie," I swore, my silver-gray eyes burning with dark, unshakeable resolve. "And my mother is about to learn what happens when you touch my blood."
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