Page 8 of Cruel Deception
Dressing, I slip on a padded bra to hide the truth, then pull on black jeans, a ripped tank top, and a leather jacket, topping it with a baseball cap tugged low. I look like trouble, and I’m fine with that.
I step into the hall, shouting, “Nico!” A guard approaches, his face neutral. “He’s outside, ma’am, by the fountain.”
I nod and head out, spotting Nico leaning against the car, scrolling on his phone. “I’m late,” I say, striding toward him. “Moretti mansion. Now.”
“Morning, freakshow,” he sneers, pocketing his phone and sliding into the driver’s seat. I climb into the back, my jaw tight.
As he pulls out, I lean forward, voice sharp. “You think throwing shade about my surgery’s gonna break me? Keep dreaming, Nico. I’m still a woman, scars or not. What’s your deal, huh? Still crying over me dumping your sorry ass two years ago?”
He laughs, a dark, oily sound. “I’m thrilled we’re done, trust me. Couldn’t handle waking up to a half-human every day.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure, Nico. Keep telling yourself that.”
“So, off to see your fiancé?” he taunts, his voice dripping venom. “Hope Luca knows he’s getting damaged goods. Bet he won’t be so eager when he finds out what’s missing under the shirt.”
It stung. Of course it did. But I’d rather be scarred and standing than whole and silent.
“None of your damn business,” I snap. I plan to tell Luca about the surgery today. If he can’t handle it, he can tear up the contract.
I’m not chained to this marriage—it’s a promise to Grandfather, not a life sentence.
Nico chuckles, flooring the gas, the car lurching forward. “What’s wrong, scarface? Scared?”
I ignore him, pulling out my Kindle to read, the words blurring as I fight to stay calm. Nico’s jabs are nothing new, but they sting more than I’ll admit. He’s still bitter I ended things, and I won’t let him see me flinch.
His problem, not mine.
Chapter 3
CHARLOTTE
The car slows as we approach the Moretti mansion, and my breath catches at the sight.
The entrance is a monument to power, all wrought iron gates and towering stone pillars, carved with intricate vines that scream old money.
The walls are flanked by statues of snarling lions, their marble eyes glinting in the morning sun, and the air hums with the quiet menace of a mafia dynasty. This isn’t just a home—it’s a fortress, a testament to the Morettis’ iron grip on the city.
A guard in a tailored black suit approaches, checking me through the window with a cold efficiency. Before I can speak, he nods, and the massive gates groan open.
As we roll inside, I spot more guards—some in sleek blue uniforms bearing the Moretti crest, others stationed like sentinels, their eyes sharp.
Snipers perch on rooftops, their rifles catching the light. It’s like driving into the White House, if the White House was run by ruthless mobsters. The Morettis aren’t just powerful—they’re untouchable.
We’re led to a sprawling parking garage, all polished concrete and gleaming cars that probably cost more than most people’s houses.
I step out, the air cool against my skin, and glance at Nico as he climbs out too. “What’re you doing?” I snap. “You’re not coming in, are you?”
He leans against the car, pulling out a cigarette with a smirk. “Nah, I’ll wait here.”
Before he can light it, a guard in the Moretti crest steps forward, his voice clipped. “No smoking on the premises. Put it away.”
Nico’s jaw tightens, his fingers twitching like he wants to argue, but the guard’s stare is pure steel. He shoves the cigarette back in his pocket, muttering under his breath. Good. Let him squirm.
I head toward the main entrance, a towering set of double doors carved with the same vines as the gate.
I press the doorbell, and the doors swing open automatically, revealing a foyer buzzing with activity.
Female staff in crisp uniforms glide past, carrying silver trays with a precision that feels almost military. It’s like a party just ended or is about to begin, the air charged with purpose.
