Chapter 20 - The Queen of the Moretti Empire
Six months later.
The summer sun shone brightly over the manicured lawns of the Moretti estate,
reflecting off the sparkling water of the grand outdoor fountain.
The security guards along the perimeter wall still carried concealed weapons,
the cameras still monitored every square inch of the estate,
but the dark aura of fear that once hung over the house was entirely gone.
In the grand dining room,
a team of international logistics managers sat around the thirty-foot table,
reviewing the legal shipping contracts for the new European trade network.
At the head of the table sat Gabriel Moretti,
looking lethal and magnificent in a tailored navy suit.
And sitting right beside him,
occupying the high-backed velvet chair at his right hand,
was me.
I wore a sharp,
tailored white pantsuit,
a diamond watch on my wrist,
and the heavy gold Moretti signet ring gleaming on my finger.
I reviewed the quarterly audit numbers on my digital tablet,
my fingers flying across the screen with expert speed.
"The freight margins in Rotterdam are three percent off,
Gabriel,"
I said,
pointing at a section of the financial report.
"The port manager is skimming off the top."
Gabriel turned to look at me,
a slow,
devastatingly handsome smile spreading across his face.
"Fire him,"
Gabriel ordered the logistics manager sitting across from us.
"If my wife says the numbers are wrong,"
"the numbers are wrong."
The manager bowed his head quickly.
"Yes,
Don Moretti."
"Right away,
Mrs. Moretti."
When the meeting concluded and the managers exited the hall,
Gabriel pushed his chair back and walked over to my side.
He leaned down,
resting his hands on the armrests of my chair,
trapping me in a warm,
scented embrace of expensive cologne and dark tobacco.
"Mrs. Moretti,"
he whispered into my ear,
his lips brushing against my skin,
making me shiver with delight.
"You are far too terrifying for these poor accountants."
"I learned from the best,"
I smirked,
turning my head to press a quick kiss to his sharp jawline.
Suddenly,
a new butler walked into the dining room carrying a silver tray.
He looked nervous,
his hands shaking slightly as he approached the head of the table.
"Um... excuse me,
Don Moretti,"
the butler stammered,
holding out the tray.
"I brought your afternoon beverage."
The butler leaned over to place the cold glass onto the mahogany table.
His foot caught the edge of the Persian rug.
The glass wobbled wildly.
A full,
iced macchiato spilled across the table,
splashing dark brown coffee directly over Gabriel’s four-thousand-dollar custom leather shoes.
The young butler turned pale as paper,
his knees shaking violently.
"I... I am so sorry,
sir!"
the butler gasped,
looking like he was about to faint.
"Please don't execute me!"
Gabriel looked down at his ruined leather shoes,
then looked over at me.
I burst out laughing—a bright,
unfiltered,
and beautiful laugh that echoed through the grand dining hall.
Gabriel let out a deep,
booming laugh of his own,
reaching out to pull me up from my chair and into his arms.
"Don't worry,
kid,"
Gabriel said to the terrified butler,
his hand resting comfortably around my waist as he pulled me close.
"The last person who spilled coffee on these shoes..."
Gabriel kissed the top of my head passionately,
May you like
his dark eyes shining with endless love and triumph.
"...ended up taking over my entire life."
