Chapter 19 Threads Between Us
••Roman••
New York had a way of swallowing noise, even amidst its deafening chaos. Cars blared, curses flew, and the weight of towering buildings created an aching groan, yet my thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Luciana.
I stood at the hotel window with my phone in hand, I found my thumb poised over her contact. It was a moment of pointless hesitation that gripped me more firmly than I cared to admit. I often felt the urge to send something simple, something like:
Are you settling in? Did you eat?
How ridiculous and weak. This was not behavior befitting an Orlov heir.
So, each time, I locked the screen and tucked the phone away, convincing myself it wasn’t necessary. I had assigned one of my security guards to keep an eye on her from afar and send me updates.
Logic told me that was sufficient. Emotion… well, I chose not to indulge that notion.
His reports came in few times. The first time, he mentioned she barely spoke at breakfast. The next day, he said she spent hours in the garden, staring into space like she was thinking her way through the walls. Another day, he said she visited the gym.
I read every line with the same tight pull in my chest, a feeling I refused to name.
There was no need to text her.
No need to shatter the distance between us.
Although sometimes—especially late at night, when silence loomed heavily—I couldn’t help but wonder if she was adapting or falling apart.
I took a deep breath, these musings were pointless. She was secure in my home, safeguarded by my security team. Everything was in order.
Upon landing back in Moscow, I didn’t head home to unwind or check in. Instead, I went straight to my car, drove through the estate gates, and entered her room while she slept.
She lay curled up on one side of the bed, hair cascading over the pillow, her laptop still open beside her. Her face seemed softer in slumber, free of the walls she often hid behind.
I placed a note next to her lamp.
Then I slipped away before I could do anything foolish like tuck her in or whisper her name.
\----
••Luciana••
The first week passed in an unexpectedly quiet routine. Breakfast at the long table typically unfolded in a silence that wasn’t hostile, merely… weighted. Nadia attempted a few gentle questions, Mildred offered sarcasm on her good days, and Roman’s absence marked each morning.
The empty seat quickly became the new normal, faster than I wanted to admit.
Afternoons were devoted to FaceTiming Matteo and Antonio, mostly to hear their voices clash over Pier Twelve. Their bickering kept my mind engaged. Some days, I hit the gym until my arms trembled. Other evenings, I found solace in the garden, allowing the chill to envelop me like a comforting blanket.
That routine persisted until one evening, a maid approached me in the garden with a sealed envelope.
“Signora Orlov… this is for you.”
Orlov.
The title felt strange, like wearing a coat that didn’t quite fit.
The envelope bore the old Moretti crest, and my heart twisted uneasily.
Inside, I found:
“Signora Orlov,
The Sapphire Lounge requires your approval for urgent restructuring. Attached are financial discrepancies from last quarter…”
I stared at the words, letting them blur before my eyes.
Sapphire Lounge.
My father had mentioned it once, years ago, as he adjusted his cufflinks before a gala. “A good investment. Strong potential.”
I had nodded politely back then, too engulfed in my own 'sheltered princess world' to ask what it really was. The way he said it should have made me curious, yet I let it slip by unexamined.
Now the full implications rushed in on me.
Sapphire Lounge wasn’t just a business.
On the outside, it was a luxury lounge with velvet seats, private halls, expensive wine lists. Ordinary enough.
Beneath it lay a Moretti operation. A venue where secrets were murmured, alliances tested, and the wrong people kept within reach for scrutiny.
I retreated to my bedroom, closed the door, sat at the edge of the bed, and called the manager.
He answered without delay. “Signora… finally.”
His voice carried exhaustion and something like fear. He explained the situation—staff issues, money disappearing in ways that didn’t add up, a rival group sniffing around for weakness.
The more he spoke, the more I felt my pulse steady.
Not panicked, or overwhelmed, just focused.
The presence of a rival group meant we were in danger. And even though I no longer carried the Moretti name, the blood that ran through me remained indifferent to that fact. If anything threatened my family's property, I wouldn’t just sit back and let it deteriorate.
This is mine.
My father entrusted it to me.
Now it was my responsibility to take charge.
I retrieved my laptop and dedicated hours to sifting through files, probing for answers, analyzing financial statements, and reviewing reports. The house surrounded me with its gentlv murmurs while my mind raced with thoughts.
But somewhere amidst examining staff lists and double bubb-checking security logs, exhaustion dragged me under. I couldn't even recall slipping into sleep.
Morning light crept across my pillow, warm enough to nudge my eyes open. My neck hurt from sleeping halfway folded over my laptop, and for a second I couldn’t remember what planet I was on.
Then I noticed it.
A sticky note, pale yellow, pinned neatly to the lampshade beside me.
On it was written:
“Get ready tomorrow at 6 p.m. Dress well."
—Roman.”
I sat up slowly.
Dress well? For what?
So he had come into the room while I was asleep, just to leave this.
I leaned back on my palms, staring at the note as if it might sprout more information.
Roman hadn’t been here in days. The house felt different when he was gone—colder yet oddly vacant. Now that he was back, and apparently I had exactly twenty-four hours to be… impressive?
Either way, he clearly expected me to show up beside him.
And for the first time since stepping into this house, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run from that… or lean into it.