The marble floors of the Moretti estate didn't just shine; they glared. Every step I took in my scuffed flats echoed through the cavernous foyer, a rhythmic reminder that I didn't belong in a place where the air smelled of beeswax, old money, and a lingering, metallic hint of something colder.
The guard, a man with a neck thicker than my thigh and eyes that looked like they’d seen too many things they couldn't forget, didn't speak. He simply gestured toward the heavy mahogany doors at the end of the hall.
"He's waiting," the guard grunted.
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a jagged stone. I clutched the strap of my bag, my knuckles white. My father had always told me that the Morettis were businessmen, but you didn't need a security detail that looked like professiona
