Chapter 2 - The Lion's Den
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Three hours later, they dressed Adelaide in an old olive-green dress from a guest closet. It was drab, ill-fitting, and completely devoid of any elegance.
No suitcase. No jewelry. No goodbye.
Rain hammered the roof of the black town car as it carried her deep into the Berkshire Mountains. The journey was a silent march toward an execution. Adelaide kept her hands folded in her lap, her fingernails biting into her palms to keep from crying.
Behind high stone walls and wrought-iron gates, armed guards escorted Adelaide through the sprawling Moretti compound. The house was a fortress of marble and dark wood, intimidating and cold.
At the end of a long, shadowed hall, massive study doors opened.
Mateo Moretti stood behind a heavy mahogany desk. He was thirty-two. He wore a midnight-blue suit that tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders. His dark hair was swept back, framing black eyes that looked entirely capable of reducing a man’s future to one brutal decision.
“Jones,” his voice was low, vibrating with a dangerous edge. “You’re late.”
Adelaide swallowed the lump of terror in her throat.
“The storm slowed the car.”
Mateo finally looked up from the papers on his desk.
Silence. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.
Adelaide felt her courage collapsing inward under the weight of his stare. She knew what he saw. A ruined face. A cheap dress. An insult wrapped in a pathetic package.
“I know I’m not what you expected,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.
Mateo came around the desk. His footsteps were silent on the Persian rug.
She backed up instinctively until her shoulders hit the heavy wooden door.
“My family sent me because they thought my face would insult you,” she breathed out, squeezing her eyes shut. He stopped inches away. She forced herself not to look down, tilting her chin up despite her fear. “If you’re going to kill me, please do it quickly.”
Mateo raised one large, calloused hand.
Adelaide flinched, bracing for a strike.
No blow came.
Instead, his thumb touched the edge of her scar. The touch was incredibly gentle. Almost reverent.
“Disgusted?” His voice dropped to a rough whisper.
Then he removed her heavy glasses, tossing them onto a nearby leather chair.
May you like
Adelaide could barely breathe. Her vision blurred slightly, but she could see the intense, burning focus in his dark eyes. Mateo looked directly at the scar her family had spent fifteen years teaching her to hide.
“Why would I be disgusted by the only real thing in a family of plastic cowards?” Mateo asked.
