Chapter 7 – THE TICKET TO PARIS

I stared at the embossed gold lettering on the acceptance letter.

“Paris?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

“I made a few calls,” Luca said softly, leaning against the doorframe. “You told me once that you wanted to design your own dresses, not just fix other people’s mistakes. You have the talent, Sophie. You just needed the door opened.”

Answer One: Luca isn’t trying to trap me in his dark world. He is setting me free to pursue my own.

Tears pricked my eyes. It was everything I had ever dreamed of. A way out of poverty, a chance to build a life on my own terms.

But as I looked at the ticket, a heavy, hollow ache formed in my chest.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, looking up at him.

“Because you saved my nephew,” Luca replied, his dark eyes intensely sincere. “And because… if you stay here, you’ll always be looking over your shoulder. You deserve a life in the light, Sophie. Not in my shadows.”

The reversal was heartbreaking. I thought he was going to beg me to stay. Instead, he was pushing me away because he believed he wasn’t good enough for me.

I closed the velvet box.

“You’re right,” I said quietly. “It is dangerous here.”

A flicker of pain crossed his face, but he nodded. “The car is waiting outside to take you to the airport.”

I grabbed my duffel bag and walked past him. The silence between us was deafening. I walked down the grand staircase, through the foyer where this entire nightmare had begun.

I reached the front doors. The driver was loading my bag into the trunk.

I looked back. Luca was standing at the top of the stairs, watching me go. The most powerful man in Chicago looked entirely defeated.

I looked down at the velvet box in my hand. Paris. Fashion. Safety.

I walked out the door and down the steps.

But as I reached the car, a sleek, black limousine pulled up to the estate gates.

The heavy iron gates hadn’t been closed.

An elderly man stepped out of the limousine. He wore a heavy wool coat, leaning on a silver-tipped cane. He looked fragile, but the four heavily armed guards flanking him suggested otherwise.

In his wrinkled hand, he held a long, black wooden rosary.

Open Two: Who is this man, and why is the head of security letting him walk straight onto the property?

“Mr. Moretti!” the elderly man called out, his voice raspy and loud.

Luca rushed down the stairs, pushing past me, his protective instincts instantly flaring. He stood between me and the old man.

“Don Carlo,” Luca said, his tone respectful but guarded. “You are off your territory.”

“I am here for peace, Luca,” Don Carlo wheezed, stepping forward. He was the head of the New York syndicate, the most powerful family on the East Coast. “I heard about Marcus. A tragedy. But it leaves your family vulnerable. I have come to offer an alliance.”

Don Carlo held up the black rosary. “A permanent alliance. My granddaughter, Isabella, is twenty-four. Beautiful. Cultured. She needs a husband.”

My stomach plummeted. An arranged marriage.

“You want me to marry your granddaughter to secure the Midwest?” Luca asked coldly.

“It is the old way,” Don Carlo nodded. “It guarantees blood ties. Refuse, and my capos will see your weakness. They will move on Chicago by midnight.”

It was a blatant threat masked as a blessing.

Luca stood perfectly still. He looked at Don Carlo, then he turned and looked at me. I was standing by the car door, holding my ticket to Paris.

“I decline your offer, Don Carlo,” Luca said, his voice ringing out across the driveway.

Don Carlo’s eyes narrowed. “You risk a war over pride?”

“No,” Luca said, stepping back toward me. He took my hand in front of the New York boss. “I risk it because I’m already spoken for.”

TITLE: The Burned Photograph

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