Chapter 7 - Reclamation of the Queen Anne
The afternoon sun managed to slice through the industrial haze of the river valley, casting long, golden shadows across the Victorian eaves of 412 Riverfront Way.
The Queen Anne house had stood on the bluff overlooking the deep-water channel of the Allegheny River since 1894. Its wrap-around porch, carved spindle-work, and three-story corner turret were relics of an era when Pittsburgh steel barons built castles within sight of their furnaces. But years of neglect under Boyd’s bitter oversight had dulled the paint to a chalky gray, and the lawn had grown choked with weeds.
A fleet of black commercial vans and dumpsters lined the private gravel driveway.
Sadie stepped out of Marcelo’s Maybach, pausing at the foot of the stone steps. Her chest tightened. This was the porch where her grandmother, Nana Rose, used to sit with a bowl of fresh cherries, watching the barges glide silently down the river. But it was also the porch where Boyd had cornered Sadie three months ago, grabbing her wrist until it bruised because she had spent twenty dollars on winter boots for her younger sister Clara instead of buying him his preferred brand of single-malt bourbon.
She froze, one foot poised over the bottom step.
A warm, broad hand settled gently against the small of her back. Marcelo leaned down, his lips brushing near her ear. "The ghosts here belong to you, Sadie. The bad ones? We burn them out today."
Behind them, Leo Santoro whistled sharply. A dozen crew members in work overalls moved into the house with industrial trash bins, contractor bags, and pry bars.
"Every piece of clothing he left behind," Marcelo instructed Leo in a low, ruthless voice. "Every golf club, every tool, every photograph where his face appears. I want it loaded into the incinerator trucks by nightfall. If it touched Boyd Gable, it does not remain in this house."
"Understood, Boss," Leo replied, heading up the steps with a crew of five men.
Sadie walked through the front door, Marcelo staying glued to her side. The house smelled faintly of dust, old oak, and stale cigar smoke—Boyd’s cheap cigars. But as she stepped into the parlor, she saw that the heavy pocket doors had already been slid open, letting the sunlight flood the high ceilings.
On the dining room table sat Clara Gable.
"Sadie!"
Clara, twenty-one years old with the same large, expressive dark eyes as Sadie but with a fragile, youthful bounce, leaped from the chair. She threw her arms around Sadie’s neck, burying her face into her sister’s shoulder.
"You're okay," Clara sobbed, squeezing Sadie so hard their ribs protested. "Leo called me from the bridge this morning. He told me it was over. He said Boyd was gone and that Moretti couldn't touch us anymore."
Sadie held her sister tightly, burying her nose into Clara’s hair, her eyes burning with fierce, protective tears. "It’s over, Clara. Nobody is ever going to threaten you to control me again. Nobody."
Clara pulled back, wiping her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her oversized Pitt hoodie, and then looked nervously at Marcelo, who was standing quietly by the foyer entrance, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets.
"Mr. Vieri," Clara said tentatively, offering a shy, grateful nod. "Thank you. For protecting my sister. For... for sending your men to my dorm."
Marcelo’s stern features relaxed into an unexpectedly warm, gentle expression. He took two slow steps forward and inclined his head with the courtly grace of an old-world gentleman.
"Call me Marcelo, Clara. You are Sadie’s blood. That makes you family to me. And in my house, family is sacred." He turned to Sadie, gesturing toward the wide bay windows that looked out over the riverfront. "While you two walk the grounds, my decorators and contractors will begin clearing the upper floors. Dr. Rossi has arranged for a private nurse and physical therapist to evaluate the renovations needed to make this estate entirely modern and impenetrable."
"Marcelo," Sadie said, her voice catching as she looked around the grand parlor. "You don't have to spend your money renovating my grandmother's house."
Marcelo walked directly up to her, ignoring Clara’s presence entirely, and took Sadie’s hand. He raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss directly against the gold signet ring on her fourth finger.
"This is not charity, Sadie," he said softly, his golden-amber eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made the breath catch in her throat. "This ground is where you built your courage. You bled for this soil. You saved my life because you were brave enough to stand in front of a bullet for a stranger. If I spend ten million dollars turning this house into an impenetrable fortress for you and your sister, it is only a fraction of what I owe you."
Clara watched them, her eyes widening as she recognized the raw, unmistakable devotion radiating from the dangerous mafia don toward her older sister. A soft smile tugged at Clara’s lips. "I think... I’m going to go check on Nana Rose’s garden in the back."
Once Clara slipped out through the French doors leading to the veranda, Sadie turned back to Marcelo. She felt vulnerable in a way she hadn't felt in court. In court, there was an enemy to fight. Here, there was only Marcelo—and the terrifyingly sweet, all-consuming reality of how he looked at her.
"Boyd told me I was fat," Sadie whispered, the confession tearing out of her before she could stop it. Her voice was barely a breath, carrying years of silent humiliation. "He told me that my hips were disgusting. That no man with money or status would ever look twice at a woman who worked her knees raw scrubbing bathtubs in a hotel."
Marcelo didn’t hesitate. He closed the remaining inches between them, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her lush, curving body flush against his hard chest. Sadie gasped softly as she felt the sheer, unyielding power of his muscles through the fabric of their clothes.
"Boyd Gable was a blind, cowardly insect who tried to poison a goddess because he knew he wasn't worthy to kiss the hem of her dress," Marcelo growled, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. His fingers slid up into her dark, thick hair, tilting her face up to his. "You are soft where a woman ought to be soft, Sadie. You have hips made to be held, skin that glows like fresh cream, and a spine made of Pennsylvania steel. Every inch of you drives me mad with desire."
Sadie looked up into his eyes, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Marcelo..."
He didn't wait for her to second-guess herself. He lowered his mouth to hers, claiming her lips with a hunger that was slow, reverent, and utterly devastating. Sadie let out a soft moan against his mouth, her arms winding around his neck, sinking into his broad shoulders. He tasted of sweet espresso, danger, and a fierce, unyielding promise. When his tongue swept across hers, teasing her lips apart, Sadie felt an electric warmth pool deep in her belly, shattering the last cold remnants of Boyd’s abuse.
When they finally parted, Marcelo pressed his forehead against hers, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.
May you like
"Tonight, you sleep in my master suite in Shadyside," he murmured against her jawline. "Tomorrow, the city’s underworld will try to test us. But they will find out very quickly that what Dominic Moretti started... I am going to finish with you at my side."
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