Chapter 8 – Mrs. Moretti[Part 3]
1496 Words
If I stay, I will walk out of this hotel into a wall of flashes and microphones and loaded questions. One slip, one wrong word, one crack in my voice, and the narrative is theirs.
If I go, I walk straight into Dante’s world. Into his villa, his rules, his bed if I’m not careful.
Both paths feel like losing.
But one of them at least puts me in the same room as the man who lit the match under my life.
If I’m going to burn, I want my hands on the gasoline.
“I’m not doing this because he snapped his fingers,” I say slowly. “I’m not running to him for protection like some scared little girl. If I go, it’s because it’s the best position from which to fight him. And whoever else thinks they own me.”
I can already hear his voice in my head, low and smug: *I knew you’d come.*
I hate that some bruised, traitorous part of me wants to prove him right and wrong at the same time.
“Luna—” Rafael starts.
“I can’t go dark for months,” I cut him off. “You know that. I disappear now, and they’ll replace me on playlists before my body’s even cold. At least with him, I’m not fighting blind.”
He swallows, pain etched into his face. “We can—”
“We can still fight from there,” I say. “You said it yourself. We find lawyers. Dig up everything on these contracts. Make a plan. I just… I’ll do it where the bullets are more likely to hit someone else first.”
Mia lets out a breath that’s half laughing, half sob. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
Luca tilts his head. “Mr. Moretti will be pleased you see reason.”
Heat flares in my chest. “Don’t twist this. I’m not seeing his reason. I’m seeing mine.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “You’ll want to pack.”
I stand on unsteady legs.
“What am I supposed to bring?” I ask. “My entire tour wardrobe?”
“We can ship trunks later,” Luca says. “For tonight, a small bag. Essentials. Clothes for a day or two. Everything else can be arranged in Sicily.”
Sicily.
It hits me for real then. This isn’t just a conversation. It’s a departure.
Mia is already halfway to the closet.
“You’re not going alone,” she says. “If you think I’m letting you run off to MafiaLand without me, you’re dumber than your lyrics about that DJ.”
“I can’t drag you into this,” I protest.
She throws a pair of jeans into my suitcase. “Too late. I’ve been in this since the first time I threatened to tase that creepy A&R guy. I’m coming. Someone has to glare at Dante when you’re too tired.”
“You’re not on his list,” I say. “He doesn’t own you.”
She straightens, looks me dead in the eye. “I’m on *your* list. That’s enough.”
My throat tightens.
Rafael steps in front of me, hands settling on my shoulders.
“Don’t do this,” he says quietly. “Don’t go back to him. He’ll eat you alive.”
“Then I’ll choke him on my bones,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. “I can’t fight what I don’t understand, Raf. Running in the dark won’t fix this.”
His eyes search mine. Fear. Anger. Something softer he’s never said out loud.
He pulls me into a quick, crushing hug, hand cradling the back of my head like I might break.
“Call me,” he murmurs into my hair. “Every chance you get. If he hurts you—”
“I know,” I say, even though we both know there’s not much he can do against a man like Dante Moretti.
He lets me go and looks past me to Luca.
“If anything happens to her—”
“I die,” Luca says simply.
Rafael blinks. “That’s… dramatic.”
“It’s also accurate,” Luca replies without a hint of humor. “Mr. Moretti is very clear about my responsibilities.”
Mia whistles low. “Great. Human collateral. We’re definitely in billionaire psycho territory now.”
We pack fast.
Toothbrush. A couple pairs of jeans. A hoodie. It's my favorite beat‑up leather jacket. A handful of stage outfits Mia insists on shoving into a garment bag “in case you need to out‑glitter him.”
The certificate and contract go into the outside pocket of my carry‑on. I hate touching them, but I’m not leaving them where someone else can.
By the time we’re done, my legs feel like someone else’s.
Luca checks the hallway through the peephole.
“Press?” I ask.
“Not on this floor yet,” he says. “They’re in the lobby and outside. We’ll use a staff elevator and service exit. Keep your head down.”
“I’m good at that,” I mutter.
The irony tastes bitter.
The trip through the hotel is a blur of beige walls and humming lights. Luca moves like he’s done this a thousand times: nods to staff, murmurs into his earpiece, turns at unmarked corridors that somehow all lead us away from prying eyes.
We slip out a back door into the cool night air. Camera flashes strobe faintly around the front corner of the building; the noise of shouted questions bleeds around the brick.
Two black SUVs idle by the loading dock. One of Dante’s men—different suits, the same aura of controlled violence—opens the rear door of the nearer one.
“Go,” Luca says.
Mia slides in first. I follow, ducking my head. Luca climbs in last, shutting the door firmly.
The driver pulled away before my seatbelt clicks.
We take a route I don’t recognize, weaving through dark side streets, then merging onto a highway. The city lights thin out. The world outside becomes a smear of black and distant gold.
Mia scrolls her phone, thumbs flying. I stare at the certificate poking out of my bag and try not to think about what it would feel like to rip it into pieces.
Rafael’s last text glows at the top of my screen.
*Call me when you land. Don’t let him corner you alone.*
Too late.
The private terminal is quiet when we arrive. No paparazzi, no fans—just a few planes sleeping under floodlights and ground crew in reflective vests.
The jet waiting for us is white and sleek, the Moretti crown logo small and subtle near the tail.
Of course it’s a crown.
Luca steps out first, scans the tarmac, and then gestures for us to follow.
The night air is cool against my face, lifting stray strands of my hair. The roar of distant commercial flights is just enough white noise to make the moment feel unreal.
A flight attendant waits at the bottom of the stairs, polished and professional. Her eyes flick from Luca to me to Mia, curiosity flaring then smoothing into a neutral smile.
“Ms. Vega,” she says. “Mr. Moretti is on board.”
Of course he is.
My boots clink softly on the metal steps. With every rung, my heart thuds louder.
At the top, I pause for half a beat, hand on the frame, breathing in recycled cool air that smells like leather and coffee and something darker that’s all him.
Then I step inside.
The cabin could be a living room in a magazine—cream leather seats, dark wood paneling, a couch along one wall, and soft lighting. The low hum of the engines vibrates under my feet.
He stands by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly on the back of a seat. The harsh white of the tarmac lights silhouettes him, turning him into a dark cut‑out against the glass. Haloed in machine glow, like heaven is mocking hell.
He turns when he hears me.
For a moment, we just stare at each other across the narrow aisle.
His gaze drags down my body—jeans, hoodies, leather jackets, scuffed boots, and remnants of stage makeup. I didn’t bother to fully scrub off. Something like satisfaction flickers in his eyes, like I’ve passed some test just by showing up.
He straightens to his full height, the predator in a perfectly pressed shirt.
“Welcome home, wife,” Dante says.
My skin burns at the word—but fear isn’t the only thing crawling under it.
Mrs. Moretti.
The name feels like a necklace made of barbed wire right now.
But one day, if I survive this, I’m going to learn how to wrap it around his throat.
- Writer
