Chapter 7 - The Fortress by the Sea
Hallowmere Manor loomed out of the coastal fog like a citadel carved from ancient stone and ocean salt. By the time the armored sedan swept through the wrought-iron security gates, the sun was barely beginning to streak the gray Atlantic horizon with pale ribbons of pink and gold.
Bella stepped out of the vehicle, pulling her heavy wool coat around her shoulders against the biting coastal wind. The contrast between the noisy, crowded streets of Chicago and the absolute, tomb-like silence of the estate was staggering.
Rosa Delgado, the head housekeeper, was waiting on the grand stone steps with a steaming mug of spiced tea.
“Welcome to Hallowmere, chica,” Rosa said, her sharp dark eyes assessing Bella with a mixture of professional appraisal and warm hospitality. “Come inside before the wind freezes your ears off.”
Bella followed her into a cavernous foyer dominated by dark oak paneling, roaring stone fireplaces, and an eerie, magnificent stillness.
“Is he back yet?” Bella asked, clutching the warm mug of tea between her hands.
“The boss? Not yet,” Rosa replied, leading her up the grand staircase toward a sunlit second-floor suite overlooking the crashing surf. “When Alessandro Moretti goes out to clean house, he likes to make sure the floor is completely swept before he comes home. Rest, Isabella. You’re safe here.”
The suite was breathtaking—high ceilings, pale green plaster walls, tall arched windows framing the endless ocean, and a massive mahogany bed draped in thick white quilts. It was luxurious, yet it felt like a gilded cage.
Bella couldn’t sleep. She spent hours pacing the Persian rug by the window, watching the distant crashing waves, her mind replaying the cold finality in Alessandro’s voice over the phone.
I only do what is necessary.
By midnight, the storm outside had broken loose. Rain lashed violently against the leaded glass windows, and the wind howled through the coastal pines like a pack of wolves.
Footsteps echoed softly down the second-floor hallway—heavy, deliberate, unhurried.
Bella rushed to her door and pulled it open just as Alessandro Moretti walked past.
He had removed his overcoat. His black suit was dusted with rain, his white shirt collar open at the throat, and a thin, angry red scratch marred the side of his jawline—the only visible sign of whatever violence had transpired in the city tonight.
He stopped, turning his dark eyes toward her.
“You’re still awake,” he observed quietly.
“How could I sleep?” Bella demanded, stepping out into the hallway and looking him up and down. “You’re bleeding!”
Alessandro touched his jaw with long, scarred fingers, looking at the faint smear of blood on his thumb with mild detachment. “It’s nothing. A souvenir from Bianchi’s cousin.”
“And where is Bianchi’s cousin now?” Bella asked, her voice trembling.
Alessandro’s dark eyes met hers, flat and fathomless. “He has relocated. Permanently outside the state of Illinois.”
A cold shiver raced down Bella’s spine. She stepped closer, closing the distance between them. “You didn't have to do that. You didn't have to risk your life over a waitress from Lucia’s.”
May you like
Alessandro closed the remaining space between them with sudden, fluid grace. He reached out, his warm hand gently cupping the side of her face, his thumb brushing away a stray lock of hair.
“You are not a waitress from Lucia’s, Isabella,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that made her breath hitch. “You never were.”
