Chapter Eleven
Mia
This is insane.
What am I doing?
The thought runs through my mind for the seventh time since we turned through the massive iron gates at the end of Maverick Moretti’s drive.
Actually, no. Drive is too small a word.
This isn’t a driveway. This is a private road pretending to be humble.
Tall palms line both sides, lit from below with soft golden lights even though the sun has barely started to dip behind the mountains. The landscaping is perfect. Not pretty. Perfect. Like every flower was interviewed before being allowed to live here.
Beside me, Livy presses both hands to the window.
“Wow, Mama,” she breathes. “Look how big his house is.”
The estate rises ahead of us in pale stone and dark wood, all graceful arches, wide balconies, and warm light spilling from tall windows.
It looks Italian. Not in the theme-restaurant way.
In the way that makes me feel like someone imported a villa brick by brick and told Palm Springs to behave itself around it.
“It’s beautiful,” I manage.
Livy turns to me, eyes wide. “Do you think he has a dungeon?”
“Olivia.”
“What? Rich people's houses always have weird rooms.”
“That’s not true, honey.”
“How do you know for sure? We’re not rich.”
Fair.
Painfully so.
I smooth my hands over the skirt I changed into three times before leaving the house.
Nothing about me feels right for this place.
My sandals feel too cheap. My dress feels too simple.
My hair, which I had thought looked soft and pretty at home, now feels like it belongs on a woman who spends her mornings hauling feed buckets and arguing with city inspectors.
Because I do.
That’s exactly who I am.
We’re not hurting by any means. We have a roof over our heads. Food in the fridge. A reliable vehicle, most days. Livy has what she needs and many things she wants.
But this?
This is not comfortable money.
This is generational money. Empire money. Men in suits opening doors before I reach them money.
Most of what I have goes to Livy, the sanctuary, or the animals who come to me half-starved and scared of their own shadows.
If there is anything left after that, it usually ends up becoming new fencing, medicine, feed, or some emergency repair that waited until two in the morning to make itself known.
I’m proud of what I built.
I truly am.
But as the car rolls to a stop in front of Maverick’s home, my pride feels suddenly small beside all this stone.
A man in a black suit steps forward and opens my door before I can reach for the handle.
I freeze…Livy does not.
“Thank you,” she says brightly, hopping out like she gets chauffeured to Italian palaces every Tuesday.
The man’s mouth softens. “Prego, signorina.”
Livy looks back at me. “Mama, he called me something fancy.”
“He did,” I say, climbing out carefully.
Another man opens the rear door and retrieves the small tin of cookies Livy insisted we bring because, in her words, “You don’t show up to supper empty-handed.”
The front doors open before we reach them, and there he is.
Maverick Moretti.
No suit jacket tonight. Just black slacks, a white dress shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he has no idea how unfair that is to every woman with working eyes.
But it’s not the clothes.
It’s the way every person near him shifts when he appears.
Not dramatically. But with awareness.
His eyes find mine first, and the noise in my head suddenly quiets.
Then his gaze moves to Livy, and something in his face softens.
“Olivia,” he says. “Benvenuta.”
Livy grins, holding up the tin. “We brought cookies. Mama said not to, but I said we have manners.”
“I did not say not to.”
“You made the face.”
Maverick’s gaze flicks to me, amused.
Traitorous heat climbs my neck.
“I see,” he says solemnly, taking the tin from Livy like she handed him diamonds. “Then I’m honored.”
Livy beams.
A woman appears beside him, older, elegant, with silver-threaded dark hair pulled neatly back. “Signor Moretti, dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“Grazie, Rosa.”
Rosa smiles at Livy. “I will make sure these are served with dessert.”
Livy’s mouth falls open. “Really?”
“Of course. A gift from a guest belongs at the table.”
Maverick steps closer, leaning down and pressing a soft, almost nonexistent kiss to the corner of my mouth. “You look beautiful, Amelia.”
I laugh not because it’s funny, but because I’m nervous.
“That’s generous.”
His expression stills. “It’s honest.”
I look past him into the glowing entrance hall. Marble floors. Curved staircase. Fresh flowers in an arrangement bigger than my kitchen table. Men posted quietly near the walls. Staff moving with silent precision.
“This is insane,” I whisper.
Maverick studies me. “What is?”
I gesture helplessly. “This. All of it. Your home. The gates. The staff. The men who look like they could take down a small army before appetizers.”
One of the men near the wall almost smiles.
Maverick doesn’t look away from me. “You’re intimidated.”
“I’m trying very hard not to be.”
“Why?”
The question catches me off guard.
“Because I don’t want to seem ungrateful.”
“You are allowed to feel what you feel in my home.”
My chest pulls tight.
I glance at Livy, who is currently asking Rosa if the house has secret passages.
Then I look back at Maverick. “We’re not hurting, Maverick.”
His expression shifts. “I didn’t think you were.”
“I know. I just…” I press my lips together, trying to find words that don’t make me sound ridiculous. “I don’t want you to think this impresses me in the wrong way.”
His brow lowers slightly. “The wrong way?”
I gesture around us, helplessly. “The house. The staff. The gates. All of it.” My voice softens. “I don’t want you thinking I’m standing here adding up dollar signs.”
Understanding settles over his face.
“I take care of myself,” I say. “I take care of Livy. We’re okay. Most of what I have goes to her or back into the sanctuary, but that’s my choice. I’m proud of what I’ve built.”
“You should be.”
The quiet certainty in his voice nearly undoes me.
I look away before he can see too much. “I just needed you to know.”
“Amelia,” he says gently.
I force myself to meet his eyes.
“I have spent my life surrounded by people who want something from me.” His gaze holds mine. “Trust me to know, you are not one of them.”
My throat tightens.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes,” he says. “I do.”
I have no idea how to respond to that.
Luckily, he saves me from trying.
“Now,” he says, offering me his arm, “let’s go find that daughter of yours. I heard her asking one of the guards if he could teach her how to do a choke hold.”
My eyes widen. “She what?”
Maverick’s mouth curves. “I believe her exact words were, ‘Only for emergencies.’”
“Oh boy.”
“Don’t worry. Matteo told her he would need your written permission.”
I stare at him.
He looks entirely too pleased with himself.
A moment later, my daughter’s laughter echoes through the hall.
Then Maverick’s twin comes around the corner with Livy tossed over his shoulder like a sack of giggling potatoes.
“Brother,” he says in mock seriousness, “I found this intruder attempting to gather intel. Shall I take her to the dungeon?”
“See, Mama?” Livy yells, hanging upside down. “I told you he had a dungeon.”
I press a hand to my forehead. “There is no dungeon.”
Stefano gasps. “No dungeon? What kind of respectable crime family do you think we are?”
Maverick gives him a flat look. “Do not help.”
“Please, Mr. Moretti Number Two,” Livy says dramatically, “don’t feed me to the fish.”
Stefano stops walking and slowly turns his head toward Maverick. “Did she say… Number Two? I’ll have you know, I was born first.”
Maverick’s mouth twitches.
“Do not laugh,” Stefano warns.
“I would never.”
“You’re laughing in your soul.”
“Perhaps,” Maverick admits. “But admit it. You never wanted to be Number One anyway.”
Stefano narrows his eyes. “That is not the point.”
Livy pats Stefano’s back. “It’s okay. Number Two is still important.”
Stefano sets her carefully on her feet, then presses a hand to his chest like he’s been wounded. “Piccola, I’m devastated.”
Livy grins up at him. “Do you need a cookie?”
His expression softens instantly. “Yes. Very much.”
Maverick leans closer to me and murmurs, “She found his weakness.”
“Cookies?”
“Being adored.” His gaze stays on his brother. “He loves the attention.”
“I heard that,” Stefano says. “And you’re not wrong. Lead on, piccola spia. Take me to the cookies.”
“Pickle-a spee-ah?” Livy repeats, making Maverick chuckle. “Did I say it right, Mr. Moretti?”
She looks back at Maverick with so much hope that he smiles.
“Very close, piccola,” he says.
The man straight-up lies.
She butchered it.
Livy beams anyway. “Check me out, Mama. I can speak Italian.” She turns toward one of the guards and points with all the authority her tiny body can hold. “Pickle-a spee-ah, mister guard man. Best keep up the good work, because I might be your boss next year. Call me Don Livy.”
The guard’s mouth twitches.
Stefano coughs into his fist.
Maverick looks like he’s fighting for his life.
“Just for reference,” Stefano tells me, “she just called our guard a little spy.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, completely mortified by the tiny package of audacity I call my daughter.
Everyone around her is smiling.
Either she hasn’t offended anyone, or they’re all too afraid of Don Livy to say so.
“Can I call you Don like everyone else does, Mr. Moretti?” Livy asks as Maverick leads us past a very grand staircase.
“Actually,” he says, “I’d rather you call me Maverick, if that’s all right.”
“I suppose so.” She sighs like he’s asked a great sacrifice from her. “Is it because you’re dating my mama? Oh, wait. Can I call you Mav?”
“Yes, it is,” Maverick says.
I stumble.
His hand catches my elbow before I can embarrass myself in front of the marble staircase, the armed guards, his brother, and possibly every ancestor painted on the walls.
“Careful, bella.”
I blink up at him. “Yes, it is?”
His mouth curves. “Yes.”
“We’re not dating.”
Livy snorts.