Chapter Twenty-nine
Serena
We stand in front of the car, and he doesn't move. He’s just there, arms crossed, expression unreadable, his entire presence radiating cold indifference. The way he watches us, like he has all the time in the world, sends a shiver down my spine.
I clear my throat. “Uhm, excuse us?” My voice is polite, hesitant, with the slightest hope he’ll step aside.
He tilts his head slightly, like I just said something amusing. “You’re excused,” he says flatly. And then, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Now get in the car.”
What the actual hell?
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him we don’t need him to play chauffeur, but then reality kicks in, we're both drunk, and neither of us can drive. Sienna shoots me a look, silently telling me to pick my battles.
He extends his hand, palm up, waiting. “Keys.”
I blink down at my hand, where I still have a tight grip on them.
How does he always manage to make everything sound like an order?
Huffing, I slap the keys into his palm, and without another word, he slides into the driver’s seat.
Sienna hesitates for a second before taking the passenger side, leaving me in the back.
This is beyond weird. The tension in the car is suffocating, thick like smoke, and no one says a word as he starts the engine. I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t just a ride home, it’s something else entirely.
But what unsettles me the most is how effortlessly he navigates through the city, like he’s done this route a million times. And then it happens, he pulls straight up to Sienna’s house without asking for an address. My eyes dart to her, but she’s just as stunned as I am.
How the hell does he know where she lives?
Sienna hesitates before unbuckling, her fingers gripping the door handle like she’s contemplating asking questions she won’t get answers to. “Well, thanks?” It comes out as half a question, half an attempt at gratitude.
He doesn’t even look at her.
She exhales sharply, giving me one last glance before stepping out. As soon as the door shuts, he pulls away without waiting to see if she makes it inside.
I watch the road stretch before us, but something isn’t right. My house is in the opposite direction. We’ve been driving for ten minutes now, then twenty.
‘‘Where are you going? My house is in the other part of the city,” I repeat, my voice sharper this time. My pulse quickens as I watch the city lights disappear behind us, replaced by long, empty roads that stretch into the night.
He doesn’t answer.
His hands grip the wheel with ease, his expression unreadable, his focus locked on the road ahead like he has all the time in the world.
My stomach twists.
I shift in my seat, pressing my hands against my thighs to steady myself. “Are you kidding me right now? Turn the car around!” I snap, but still, nothing.
His gaze flicks up through the rearview mirror, his cold gray eyes meeting mine. The look he gives me is blank, unbothered, detached, like my protests are nothing more than background noise.
“If you think I’m just going to sit here and—”
“You are going to sit there,” he cuts me off, his tone as sharp as a blade. “And you’re going to shut up about it.”
My jaw clenches.
I don’t know who the fuck this guy thinks he is, but I’m not just going to let him drive me to God-knows-where like some kidnapped princess in a mafia movie.
I reach for my phone, but before I can unlock it, he speaks again.
“Call whoever you want. No one’s coming for you,” he says simply, his voice eerily calm. “You’re safer with me than anywhere else tonight.”
I freeze.
Safer?
What the hell does that mean?
I stare at his reflection in the mirror, trying to read him, trying to find something in his expression that will tell me what the fuck is going on, but there’s nothing. Just the same cold, unreadable indifference.
The realization settles in like ice in my veins.
I don’t know this man. I don’t even know his name.
But he knows where Sienna lives. He knows where I live.
And now, he’s taking me somewhere else.
As we approach, the massive black iron gates slide open with an eerie smoothness, revealing a long, tree-lined driveway that seems to stretch endlessly into the darkness. The moment we pass through, the gates close behind us with a quiet finality, as if sealing off the rest of the world.
The car moves steadily along the pristine asphalt path, flanked by towering pines that cast long, ghostly shadows in the dim lighting.
It’s a two-minute drive, but the silence inside the car makes it feel longer.
My heart is pounding in my chest, the weight of where I am sinking in with every second that passes. I don’t belong here.
Then, the house appears.
No, not a house. A fortress.
The entire structure is sleek, modern, and intimidating as hell.
Black, angular, and almost predatory in its design, with sharp lines and massive glass windows that reflect the faint glow of the driveway lights.
The architecture is bold, almost too bold, like a challenge to anyone who dares to question the man who owns it.
The entrance is elevated, a few wide steps leading up to an open terrace with hidden lighting that casts an expensive, moody glow over the exterior.
The second-floor windows are so large they seem to expose everything inside, but I know better.
If Lorenzo Moretti lives here, nothing is exposed unless he wants it to be.
The driveway itself is just as extravagant.
Parked outside are two sleek, black cars that look like they belong in a billionaire’s private collection rather than on a driveway.
One is a low, aggressive-looking Bugatti with an impossible shine, its curves sculpted to perfection.
The other is a black Ferrari, custom-built, with a design so smooth and polished it looks like a weapon in itself.
Both cars scream money, power, and recklessness, the perfect reflection of the man who owns them.
I swallow hard as the car I’m in rolls to a stop. The tension in my chest tightens.
He waits exactly two minutes, his patience wearing thin, before his sharp gray eyes flick up to meet mine through the rearview mirror. I don’t move, and neither does he. A slow sigh escapes him, followed by the telltale roll of his eyes.
“I have better things to do,” he mutters, exhaustion dripping from his tone. “Now get out of the car and go inside.”
I hold his gaze, unflinching. “Now, Serena,” he commands, voice dropping an octave.
Okay. That was convincing.
I don’t want him to murder me and dump my body in the middle of this eerie, tree-covered property, so I push open the door and step out.
The crisp night air is still, and for the first time, I take in my surroundings.
Towering trees surround the house, their dark silhouettes forming a private fortress of nature.
But I’m not focused on the house. I’m focused on the fact that I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do. Do I knock? Announce myself? “Hi, some mysterious stranger kidnapped me here, and I was told to go inside?” Yeah, that sounds about right.
I hesitate before gripping the large, polished door handle and pushing it open. Instantly, the rich, savory aroma of pasta fills the air, wrapping around me like a warm embrace.
“Dio, sei bellissima,” a voice hums, soft yet full of life.
I turn, and my eyes land on an older woman, maybe in her sixties. She has elegant silver hair, a face lined with gentle wrinkles, and eyes that radiate kindness. She’s wearing a long dress, her warm smile so genuine it could thaw an iceberg.
Before I can react, she approaches me with open arms and pulls me into a hug. I stiffen slightly, when was the last time I was hugged like this?
“Signor Moretti tornerà presto a casa! Vieni a mangiare, ti piace la pasta?” she asks, her words flowing in melodic Italian.
I blink, trying to decipher what she just said, but it's useless. The only Italian words I know are from a menu.
“Um… I’m sorry, but I don’t understand Italian,” I say, forcing a small, polite smile.
“Oh! I am sorry, dear,” she says, her expression softening. Her English is accented but clear. “Come and eat. Mr. Moretti will be here soon to join you.”
Before I can protest, she takes my hand and gently leads me into the kitchen.
My breath catches as I take in the space.
The kitchen is enormous, sleek black cabinetry and silver accents gleam under the soft lighting.
A massive island sits in the center, surrounded by barstools, and beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, an endless expanse of trees stretches into the night. It’s breathtaking.
She gestures for me to sit at the table, and I hesitantly lower myself into the chair, my body still tense from everything that just happened.
“Bianca,” she introduces herself warmly, placing a hand over her chest.
I exhale, finding a sliver of comfort in her presence.
“What is your name, dear?” she asks gently.
“My name is Serena,” I say softly, a hint of nostalgia creeping into my voice.
I missed this. The warmth of a home, the smell of a home-cooked meal, the simple comfort of someone fussing over me.
Of course, I cook for myself, sometimes for Sienna, but when was the last time I sat down and shared a meal that felt like…
family? The sad truth is, I never have. My mother doesn’t cook, and my father barely attends dinners.
The thought is a sharp reminder of everything I never had.
“Serena, sei splendida!” Bianca exclaims, watching me with nothing but kindness in her eyes.
The way she says my name, like it belongs here, like I belong here, makes something tighten in my chest.
“Please tell me if Mr. Moretti ever upsets you,” she continues, her voice dropping slightly as she mutters, “Mi occuperò io di lui se lo fa.”