He ushered me through a side door, into a waiting SUV, to a small, private airport for a short flight to Austin where a helicopter was waiting for us.
The moment we were sealed inside, along with machine-gun toting soldiers, we lifted off.
Dante hasn’t spoken a word to me.
For the entirety of the drive and both flights, he’s either been typing or talking on his phone.
A ray of sunshine catches the diamond in my engagement ring, momentarily blinding me.
“We’ll be landing soon,” he says, looking over at me.
The blood on his hand has dried in the lines of his knuckles, and I look away.
Below us, the Hill Country unfurls in long stretches of limestone and scrub oak, the land rising and falling in soft green swells cut through with pale roads and the occasional ribbon of vineyard rows so precise they look drawn by a ruler.
It’s pretty in an expensive way, curated and deliberate.
The helicopter banks, and beneath us, a villa comes into view.
A prison?Or a honeymoon?
Is there a difference?
The helicopter banks again, and the movement shifts the world beneath us.The villa rises from the hillside in pale limestone and walls of glass, large enough to impress and isolated enough to alarm.Terraces step down the slope toward an infinity pool flashing blue in the sunlight.Cypress trees line the drive in dark, elegant rows.Vineyards spread out beyond the house like a second kingdom.
For one foolish second, I understand the appeal.
Then I notice the SUVs.
Black.Several of them.Parked along the drive and near the lower terrace in the kinds of positions that are meant to look casual but aren’t.Men stand watch near the house, one on the upper terrace, another near the pool, two more farther down where the drive bends out of sight.
This house was staffed with security long before we left Houston.
Which means Moretti always intended to bring me here.
Of course he’d leave nothing to chance.
The house grows larger as we descend, its beauty becoming more oppressive with every passing second.The terraces are too open not to be watched.The long drive is too exposed not to be controlled.Even the cypress trees feel strategic, tall and elegant and placed with purpose, because nothing about this man suggests he would spend money on anything that didn’t serve him somehow.
I’m sure some women would think this was romantic.
A private villa in the Hill Country, all limestone and vineyards and seclusion.
From up here, I can already see what it really is.
A fortified mansion where he can continue to imprison me.
I curl my fingers more tightly around the edge of the seat and force myself to pay attention.
When you can’t control the situation, assess it.
That lesson was drilled into me so early; I no longer remember learning it.My father taught me to read a room before I knew long division.Giovanni taught me which exits matter and which ones are decorative.Between them, they made sure I understood a simple truth: panic is useless, but information can save your life.
So I take inventory.
The helicopter lowers another few feet, and the landing pad comes into view beside the house, a broad, pale circle cut cleanly into the stone.Dust swirls beneath us.The skids are seconds from touching down.
Only then do I let myself look at Dante again.
