Trapped in Luxury Chapter 32

The Throne of Blood and Gold

Miller was true to his word, or true to his fear. The name came through a dead-drop message forty-eight hours later, a single word that sent a chill of grim satisfaction through me.

Moretti.

Enzo Moretti. The last remaining son of a rival family Luca's father had decimated a generation ago. We had thought him a broken man, running a small, insignificant operation in Miami. We were wrong. He had been nursing his hatred in the sun, biding his time, building a war chest. Hiring Valerius was his masterstroke—an attempt to steal the Vitoli crown not through a bloody war, but by taking its queen and breaking its king.

He had chosen the wrong queen.

There was no discussion, no war council. This was personal. Luca's rage was a cold, focused thing now, all the earlier panic transformed into a lethal intent. We would handle this ourselves. Just us.

We found Moretti in a lavish, secluded villa on a private key off the coast of Miami. The approach was by a silent, black boat under the cover of a moonless night. The air was thick and warm, heavy with the scent of salt and blooming jasmine—a grotesque parody of paradise.

We moved through the manicured gardens like ghosts, bypassing his amateurish security with ease. The back of the villa was all glass, looking out over the dark, lapping water. Inside, Moretti was celebrating. He sat at a grand piano, a glass of brandy in his hand, playing a clumsy, triumphant tune. He thought he had won. He thought Valerius had me, and that Luca was crumbling.

We stepped out of the shadows and into the light of his living room.

The music died with a discordant jangle. Moretti froze, his glass halfway to his lips. His face, tanned and smug, slackened with disbelief, then morphed into raw terror.

"Vitoli," he gasped, scrambling backward from the piano stool.

Luca didn't speak. He just looked at him, the way a lion looks at a wounded gazelle. The judgment was already passed.

"It was a good plan, Enzo," I said, my voice cutting through the tense silence. I walked forward, my heels silent on the plush rug. "Using my past against me. Hiring a ghost. You almost had us."

He stared at me, his eyes bulging. "You... you're supposed to be—"

"Alive?" I finished for him. I stopped a few feet from him. "The problem with ghosts, Enzo, is that they can be killed. And the problem with targeting me is that you made it personal."

Luca finally moved, a slow, deliberate walk that echoed in the vast room. "You touched what is mine," he said, his voice so quiet it was more terrifying than a scream. "No one touches what is mine."

Moretti fumbled for a drawer in a side table. Luca was on him in an instant, his hand closing around Moretti's wrist with a crack of breaking bone. Moretti screamed, a high, pathetic sound.

Luca pulled a gun from his waistband, pressing the cold barrel against Moretti's forehead.

"This is for my father," Luca whispered.

And he pulled the trigger.

The sound was final. Absolute. Moretti crumpled to the floor, his blood staining the white rug, his triumphant melody forever silenced.

Luca stood over him, his chest heaving, the gun still smoking in his hand. The last echo of his father's war was finally, truly over.

He turned to me, his eyes searching mine in the aftermath. There was no horror there, no question. Only a deep, weary peace. The last threat to our kingdom was gone.

I walked to him, stepping over the body without a second glance. I took the gun from his hand and placed it on the piano. Then I took his face in my hands.

"It's finished," I said.

He leaned his forehead against mine, his breath a warm sigh. "It's finished."

We stood like that for a long moment, in the house of our dead enemy, bound by the blood on our hands and the unbreakable trust in our hearts.

We left the villa as silently as we had come, the first hints of dawn painting the sky in shades of rose and gold. We didn't look back.

On the boat ride back to the mainland, standing at the bow with the wind in my hair and Luca's arms around me, I looked out at the endless ocean. The past was dead and buried. The future was ours, written in blood and gold, secured by the strength of our will and the depth of our love.

I was no longer an agent. I was no longer a captive bride.

I was Donna Anna Vitoli.

The Queen of New York.

And my reign had just begun.