Chapter 3 - THE GOLDEN CAGE
The D’Angelo estate in Long Island was less of a house and more of a fortress.
Twelve-foot stone walls topped with security cameras surrounded fifty acres of private woodlands. Iron gates opened automatically as our motorcade pulled up the winding, gravel driveway, revealing a massive neo-gothic mansion bathed in warm floodlights.
Armed guards in charcoal suits stood at attention every fifty yards.
"Welcome home, Miss Mara," Bruno said, opening the SUV door for me as we parked beneath the grand portico.
"This isn't my home," I retorted, clutching a sleeping Leo tightly. I looked at Matteo, who had stepped out on the other side. "I want to go back to my apartment."
"Your apartment is currently being searched by my men to ensure no Moretti scouts followed you," Matteo said calmly, buttoning his jacket. "It is not safe for you there. You and Leo stay here tonight."
"You can't keep me prisoner, Mr. D’Angelo," I insisted, standing my ground on the driveway despite my exhaustion.
"I am not keeping you prisoner, Mara," Matteo said, stopping and turning to face me. The moonlight highlighted the sharp angles of his jaw and the long scar running down his cheek. "I am keeping you alive. The Morettis saw you with me tonight. They saw my son in your arms. To them, you are now my greatest weakness."
He walked closer, his tall frame looming over me. "In my world, a weakness is either eliminated or protected with absolute force. I have chosen to protect you. Now walk inside before the morning chill gives my son a fever."
I swallowed hard, unable to counter his logic. I followed him through the grand oak doors into a foyer that looked like it belonged in a European palace—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and a grand sweeping staircase.
A woman in a neat housekeeper's uniform stepped forward, bowing her head slightly. "Welcome back, Don Matteo. Should I take young Master Leo to the nursery?"
As the housekeeper reached toward the baby, Leo instinctively stirred, letting out a sharp, distressed whimpering sound and burying his face deeper into my chest.
"No, Elena," Matteo instructed gently. "Prepare the master suite wing for Miss Mara. Leo will sleep in her room tonight."
The housekeeper’s eyes widened in brief surprise, but she quickly nodded. "Right away, sir."
Twenty minutes later, I found myself in a bedroom larger than my entire Queens apartment. A plush king-sized bed stood against the wall, covered in Egyptian cotton sheets, with an adjoining nursery room connected by an open archway.
I carefully laid Leo down in the carved wooden crib inside the nursery. The moment I tried to untangle my hand from his grip, his little brows furrowed, but I gently replaced my thumb with a soft plush bear. He sighed softly and settled deeper into his sleep.
I stood over the crib, watching his chest rise and fall, feeling an overwhelming surge of protective tenderness that terrified me. I barely knew this child, yet the thought of anything happening to him made my blood run cold.
"He likes you," a low voice spoke from the doorway.
I turned around to see Matteo leaning against the doorframe, a glass of dark amber whiskey in his hand. He had shed his suit jacket, rolling his crisp white shirt sleeves up to his elbows, exposing the dark ink of the dragon spiraling up his arm.
"He's an innocent baby who lost his mother," I said quietly, walking out of the nursery into the bedroom. "He just wants to feel safe."
"He hasn't felt safe with anyone since Clara died," Matteo said, stepping into the room. He walked over to the fireplace, leaning his arm against the mantelpiece. "When Clara was killed... I spent months trying to find out who placed the bomb in our car. I burnt half of Palermo to the ground looking for answers."
"Did you find them?" I asked softly, sitting on the edge of the large bed.
"I found the men who planted it," Matteo answered, his eyes darkening. "They were Moretti mercenaries. But the person who ordered it... the mastermind who knew Clara's exact schedule that morning... remains a ghost."
He looked at me, his dark eyes searching my face. "And now, two years later, you walk into my restaurant with Clara's face and my uncle's blood."
"Do you think I'm part of it?" I asked directly, my voice firm. "Do you think I was sent to trap you?"
Matteo took a slow sip of his whiskey, staring at me over the crystal glass. "If you were sent to trap me, Mara... you wouldn't have used your body to shield my son when the bullets started flying."
He set his glass down on the mantelpiece and walked over to the bed, stopping right in front of me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver velvet box.
"What is that?" I asked.
Matteo opened the box, revealing a delicate silver necklace featuring a pendant shaped like a rose entwined in thorns—the exact crest from his tattoo.
"Clara wore this every day," Matteo said quietly. "It belonged to my aunt—your mother, Sophia. It was passed down through the women of our bloodline."
My breath hitched in my throat. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I touched the cold silver. "My mother had a picture of this necklace... she cried every time she looked at it."
"It belongs to you now, Mara," Matteo whispered, reaching around my neck to fasten the clasp.
May you like
His fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of my neck, sending a violent shockwave of heat straight down my spine. His scent—smoke, leather, and dark spice—enveloped me, making my head spin. For a second, as he pulled back, our eyes met, and the air between us charged with an undeniable, electric pull that made my breath catch.
"Get some rest, Mara," Matteo said softly, his dark eyes lingering on my lips for a heartbeat before he turned toward the door. "Tomorrow, your new life begins."
