Chapter 7 – Mrs. Moretti[ Part 2]
1222 Words
The silence hums.
“Well?” Rafael demands.
“They’re on my side,” I say, “as long as I don’t upset the man who owns half their revenue stream.”
Mia mutters a curse.
I set the phone down carefully, like it might shatter.
“On stage, I can get fifty thousand people to scream when I tell them to,” I say. “Back here, I’m just a line item on a spreadsheet.”
“Luna…” Mia’s voice is soft.
“I’m not a person to them,” I continue, anger cutting through the hollow ache. “I’m a product whose value tanks if someone decides I come with a dangerous husband clause.”
“They’re wrong,” Rafael says fiercely. “You’re—”
“Am I?” I look up at him. “Because right now the only people holding real power over my life are a man who vanished seven years ago and came back with a marriage certificate, and a shadow in Naples who thinks my skin is a receipt.”
Dante walked away and left me screaming into pillows and microphones. Rafael walked in and handed me tea and contracts and space. I should know exactly which man to trust.
I don’t.
That might be the worst part.
Rafael’s mouth opens, then shuts.
Mia reaches over and laces her fingers through mine, squeezing.
“If your mother’s family were still around, he’d never dare this,” she mutters.
I blink. “What?”
She hesitates, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“Nothing,” she says too quickly. “Just… your mom always said the Vegas weren’t exactly nobodies back in Spain. Old money. Old connections. If she hadn’t run off with your dad and lost touch, you’d probably have some granduncle to scare these guys back into their caves.”
A hazy image surfaces: my mother at our tiny kitchen table, flipping through a cracked leather photo album. Stern men in suits on stone terraces. Her laugh when she said, "All of this and I picked your father instead. The drama, eh, mi estrella?*
If there was something in my blood that wasn’t just poverty and stubbornness.
If there was something he didn’t know about me.
Later, I tell myself. If there is a later.
A sharp knock rattles the suite door.
All three of us jolt.
“Room service?” Mia whispers.
“I didn’t order anything,” I mutter.
Rafael is already moving. He crosses the room in a few long strides, peeks through the peephole, and goes very still.
“What?” I hiss.
He glances back at me. “It’s not the press,” he says. “It’s worse.”
He undoes the latch and cracks the door open.
“Señor Cruz.” A smooth, accented voice flows through the gap. “Good evening.”
Rafael exhales like someone punched him. “Of course he’d send you.”
Curiosity and dread twist together in my gut. “Who is it?” I demand.
The door opens wider.
The man on the threshold looks like he was carved out of expensive stone. Early thirties, dark hair cut neat at the sides, a little longer on top, grey eyes sharp enough to slice. His charcoal suit fits like it was sewn on his body; his white shirt is open at the throat, no tie.
He scans the room once, fast, and then fixes on me.
“Ms. Vega,” he says with a small nod. “I’m Luca Romano. Mr. Moretti asked me to escort you.”
My skin prickles. “Escort me where?”
“Home,” he says simply.
Rafael steps between us, shoulders squaring. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”
Luca’s gaze ticks to him. “Señor Cruz. It's always a pleasure.”
“You and I have very different definitions of pleasure,” Rafael snaps.
Luca’s mouth curves, just a fraction. “So I’ve heard.”
Mia’s glare could cut steel. Luca meets it with a faintly amused, maddeningly calm look.
Great. Even my best friend has instant chemistry with the enemy’s right hand.
“Okay,” I cut in before the testosterone clouds the room. “Why are you here, Luca Romano? And how do you know my producer?”
“I’m Mr. Moretti’s chief of security,” he says. “And his…second, in some matters.” His eyes return to me. “We’ve crossed paths with Señor Cruz in the industry.”
“He tried to poach one of my clients by threatening to pull funding from her label,” Rafael mutters.
Luca ignores that. “Paparazzi are gathering in the lobby,” he continues. “Someone tipped them off that you’re staying here. There are at least three cars outside with long‑lens cameras pointed at this floor.”
My heart stutters.
“Of course there are,” Mia groans. “Leaky bastards.”
“If you remain,” Luca says calmly, “they will catch you when you leave. They will shout questions about the blind item. Your ‘secret husband.’ ‘Mob ties.’ Any stumble will be screen‑grabbed and posted worldwide within seconds. Mr. Moretti thought you might prefer to maneuver before that happens.”
“Mr. Moretti,” I repeat, the name sour on my tongue. “Touched by his concern.”
“He also asked me to inform you,” Luca adds, “that the other interested party has men in Sicily tonight. They were seen near the venue earlier. They may not know where you are yet. He prefers not to give them a head start.”
Mia swears.
Luca steps inside and lets the door fall softly shut behind him. He doesn’t crowd us, but he changes the air in the room just by existing. He feels like a wall—one you could break yourself on if you’re not careful.
“His jet leaves in two hours,” Luca says. “Private terminal. Discreet. If you come now, we can move you without exposure. If you do not…” He lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “You face the press alone. And whoever else is watching.”
Rafael glowers. “What a generous offer. Be caged by the devil or hunted in the streets.”
Luca looks at him, unruffled. “Do you have a better one?”
“I can get her out of the country,” Rafael says. “Right now. Somewhere safe. Somewhere he doesn’t own.”
“And then?” Luca asks. “You hide for how long? Months? Years? While her career curdles and strangers fight online over ‘what really happened to Luna Vega’? The men who think they own her will still be out there. She will simply be easier to grab without cameras.”
Rafael’s jaw works.
He isn’t wrong.
That’s what makes me want to scream.
“Stop talking about me like I’m not in the room,” I say.
Luca’s grey eyes meet mine again. There’s a flicker of something like respect there now.
“My apologies, Ms. Vega,” he says. “It is your choice. I am only the messenger.”
“Some messenger,” Rafael mutters.
Mia nudges my arm. “Luna.”
- Writer
