Chapter 12
Mr. Bianchi’s cold tone caught Alessio off guard.
In his memory, Noemi’s father had always approved of him as a son-in-law, extending warmth to the entire Moretti family. Not this
arctic chill.
His grip tightened on the phone. Something was off, but what?
The silence stretched until Mr. Bianchi moved to hang up.
“Wait!” Alessio blurted. “Is Noemi home? Can I speak with her?”
A pause.
Then Mrs. Bianchi snatched the phone, her voice sharp as broken glass.
“You control every breath she takes, and now you’re asking if she made it home? Figure it out yourself.”
The penny dropped.
Of course they were furious.
When Noemi became a “widow,” the Bianchis had tried to bring her back to Rome, find her a respectable second husband.
But Alessio-very much alive-couldn’t let his wife remarry.
He’d physically blocked their door, dropped to his knees in their driveway, sworn on his mother’s life to protect Noemi forever.
They hadn’t bought it.
Only Don Moretti’s personal intervention had made them back off.
Since then, the Bianchis treated all Morettis like poison.
After the baby comes, I’ll go to Rome myself. Make this right.
After hanging up, Mrs. Bianchi whirled on her husband. “The absolute nerve of that man!”
They knew exactly who’d called. Mrs. Conti had already reported Noemi’s marriage to Cosimo, her departure for the private island.
Their silence was deliberate payback for his deception.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Bianchi growled. “He’ll get what’s coming.”
Two weeks later, Daniela was discharged just in time for Donna Moretti’s sixtieth birthday gala.
The Moretti estate blazed with crystal chandeliers and imported orchids. Even the Prime Minister attended, honoring the family whose son had died brokering peace between warring syndicates, and whose heir would lead Italy’s most powerful dynasty.
Donna Moretti surveyed her empire with satisfaction. On her left sat Alessio with Daniela, his hand protective on her swollen belly. On her right, her daughter fresh from Manhattan’s Upper East Side.
Only one chair stood empty-Noemi’s.
Chapter 12
She’d wanted Alessio to bring Noemi home for the celebration. But he’d made excuses-the journey would exhaust her, she might
cause another scene with Daniela.
Better to keep the pregnant mother calm.
The Morettis had struggled for heirs.
Now that Daniela carried their future, nothing could risk this pregnancy.
Still, that empty chair…
“Time to cut the cake!” she announced brightly.
The garden sparkled like a jewel box. Holographic projections from London’s finest tech designers painted the air with classic films. On an elevated stage, prima ballerinas from La Scala performed Swan Lake-Donna’s favorite. Champagne fountains bubbled beside ice sculptures of the family crest.
Alessio and Daniela stood on either side of Donna as she approached the cake-a Debbie Wingham masterpiece flown in from London. The famous designer had outdone herself: six tiers of hand-carved sugar art, embedded with real diamonds, recreating scenes from Moretti family history.
As Donna raised the silver knife, the front gates exploded open.
“MARCO MORETTI!”
The string quartet screeched to a halt.
Conversations died.
Champagne flutes froze halfway to lips.
The Bianchi family stormed through the grounds like avenging angels, Mr. Bianchi leading the charge.
Alessio’s blood turned to ice. He scanned their faces desperately-no Noemi.
Where is she? What the hell happened?
Donna Moretti rushed forward, stretching her society smile. “The Bianchis! What a wonderful surprise!”
She reached for Mrs. Bianchi’s hand.
Mrs. Bianchi shoved her backward. “Don’t you dare pretend we’re friends!”
The slap of rejection echoed across the garden. Two hundred guests held their breath.
