Chapter 4 - THE LION’S DEN
By midnight, the penthouse suite of the Moretti Tower on Park Avenue had been converted into a fortified bunker.
Forty armed guards patrolled the perimeter. The private elevator was locked down on biometric clearance. Inside the guest suite, Lily was fast asleep beneath a down comforter, guarded by Sister Beatrice, whom I had personally transported from the orphanage under heavy armed escort.
In the mahogany-paneled library, however, the atmosphere was thick with cigar smoke and pure, unadulterated venom.
Sitting across from my desk was Marcus Vance—not Viktor, but his younger brother and chief legal counsel, flanked by two attorneys from the city’s most corrupt corporate firm.
Marcus was sweating through his bespoke Brioni collar, but he was doing his best to maintain an air of aristocratic superiority. On the desk between us lay a thick stack of court injunctions.
"You have no legal standing, Dominic," Marcus Vance said, his voice quavering slightly despite his smug smile. "Elena Harper died intestate. Lily is a minor ward of the state. Viktor is her closest living relative by marriage. We have an emergency protective custody order signed by Judge Holbrook three hours ago. You are harboring a child against the law. That's kidnapping. Federal kidnapping."
I sat in my high-backed leather chair, a glass of unopened bourbon resting near my fingers. The pink unicorn Band-Aid was still proudly displayed across my right knuckle.
"Judge Holbrook," I said smoothly. "He still owns that offshore marina in the Caymans? The one funded by the shell corporation that routes through the Vance shipping docks?"
Marcus’s smirk slipped a fraction. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I do," I replied. "Because I own the bank that handles the shell corporation's debt. As of twenty minutes ago, Judge Holbrook's offshore accounts are frozen, his mistress’s penthouse in Miami is under foreclosure, and the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York has received an anonymous thumb drive containing seven years of his tax evasion."
Marcus swallowed hard. His two lawyers exchanged frantic glances.
"You think this is about money, Marcus?" I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the desk. "You think I want twenty-five percent of your decrepit docks?"
"Then what the hell do you want?!" Marcus spat, panic finally cracking his polished veneer. "She's a cripple! She's an orphan! Why does Dominic Moretti care about a broken kid from an orphanage?!"
The temperature in the room plummeted to absolute zero.
Marco, standing by the door, quietly clicked the safety off his weapon.
I didn't shout. When I speak at my lowest volume, men who know me pray for their lives.
"She is not broken," I whispered. "She is a dancer."
I stood up. All six feet, six inches of me uncoiled from behind the desk, casting a shadow that swallowed the three men completely.
"Here is what is going to happen," I said, tapping the desk with one finger. "You are going to take these emergency custody orders, and you are going to eat them. Literally. Page by page, before you leave this room."
Marcus blinked, horrified. "What?!"
"Then," I continued, "you are going to call Viktor. You will tell him that the Harper trust has been irrevocably transferred to an independent foundation managed by the Moretti family. You will tell him that every square foot of Vance Maritime is being audited by my forensic accountants by morning. And if he takes one breath in Lily Harper’s direction, I will dismantle him piece by piece, starting with his hands."
"You're insane," Marcus stammered, backing toward the double doors. "The recital is tomorrow night! The public, the press—Viktor won't let this go! He’ll burn this city down before he lets you take those terminals!"
"Let him try," I said. "Marco. Feed them the paperwork. Then throw them into the alley."
"With pleasure, boss."
I turned away from their muffled protests and walked down the quiet, carpeted hallway toward the guest bedroom.
I pushed the door open gently. The nightlight shaped like a crescent moon cast soft blue shadows across the room. Sister Beatrice was dozing in an armchair, her rosary resting on her lap.
Lily was awake.
She was sitting up in the massive king-sized bed, her small knees pulled up to her chest, her fingers tracing the purple butterfly decals on the wheelchair parked beside the bed.
"Dominic?" she called softly.
I walked over, the floorboards silent beneath my socks, and sat on the edge of the mattress. "Why aren't you sleeping, little swan?"
"My legs hurt," she said quietly. There was no theatrical whining, just the flat, exhausted honesty of a child who had endured too many surgeries. "Sometimes the metal feels heavy. Even when it’s not on."
I looked down at her small, fragile limbs beneath the covers. "I know, Lily. Healing is the hardest work in the world."
"Are the bad men going to come back?" she asked, looking up at me with large, solemn eyes. "The men from the studio?"
"No," I said, and the certainty in my voice could have anchored a battleship. "They will never come back."
"Did they take my tutu?"
A faint smile touched my lips. "No. Madame Yvette rescued the tutu. It’s hanging in the closet. Freshly steamed."
"Are we still going to dance tomorrow?" she asked, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper. "Sister Beatrice said maybe it’s too dangerous. She said maybe I should just stay in bed."
I reached out, gently tapping her forehead with my finger.
"Sister Beatrice doesn't understand the rules of the stage," I said. "When a Moretti signs a contract, he delivers. Forty-seven cents, two buttons, and half a lollipop. You paid for a swan dance, Lily Harper. And tomorrow night, the whole world is going to watch you fly."
She let out a soft sigh, the knot of tension in her tiny shoulders finally unraveling. She laid her head back against the silk pillow, pulling the comforter up to her chin.
"Dominic?"
"Yes, princess?"
"You're not an angry refrigerator anymore."
"No? What am I now?"
"You're my daddy swan," she murmured, her eyes fluttering closed as sleep finally claimed her.
I sat in the dark beside her bed for three straight hours, watching her breathe, feeling a terrifying, fierce, and entirely unfamiliar emotion wrap its iron chains around my heart.
For forty years, I had fought for power, for territory, for respect.
May you like
Now, I was ready to burn the world to ashes just to keep this one child safe.
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