Chapter 4 - The Siren in Emerald
The rain cleared by the next afternoon, leaving the waters of the Massachusetts coast dark and glassy.
By 8:00 PM, a sleek yacht was cutting through the waves toward a cliffside mansion illuminated like a palace on the shore of Martha’s Vineyard. Lorenzo Moretti’s annual charity gala was famous for three things: million-dollar poker tables, corrupt politicians, and heavily armed men in expensive tuxedos.
Inside the yacht’s private cabin, Martha stood in front of a full-length mirror.
The gray cotton maid’s uniform was gone. In its place was a breathtaking, floor-length emerald silk gown with a daring backless cut that hid the bandage on her shoulder under cascading dark waves. Diamond earrings glittered at her ears, and her lips were painted a bold, dangerous red.
The door behind her opened.
Damian stepped inside, wearing a custom black tuxedo that made him look impossibly broad, regal, and lethal. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her.
For a long moment, the man who had faced down snipers and rival gang lords without blinking seemed completely breathless.
“You look...” Damian started, his voice unusually husky. He walked up behind her, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You look like you own the room.”
“I feel like an imposter,” Martha admitted, though her chin remained held high.
Damian reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a delicate velvet box. Inside lay a stunning platinum necklace set with a teardrop emerald that matched her dress perfectly.
He stepped close, brushing her hair over her shoulder, his warm fingers lightly skimming her bare skin as he fastened the clasp around her neck. Martha’s breath hitched at his proximity. The heat of his body seemed to melt away the lingering chill of the past two days.
“You’re no imposter,” Damian whispered near her ear, his lips almost brushing her skin. “Andrew told me once that his sister was the smartest person in any room she walked into. He was proud of you, Martha.”
Tears prickled at the back of Martha’s eyes, but she blinked them back, offering him a resolute smile. “Let's make him proud tonight.”
Damian slipped a compact, silver-plated 9mm pistol into a concealed holster hidden inside a garter strap against her inner thigh. His touch was professional, but the lingering warmth of his hand against her skin set her pulse racing.
“If anything goes wrong,” Damian instructed, his tone shifting back to hard steel, “you head for the docks. My boat captain has orders to take you out to international waters immediately.”
“And you?”
“I’m not leaving until Victor is breathing through a second hole in his head,” Damian said coldly.
The yacht docked at the private pier. They slipped off the boat under the cover of forged invitations, stepping into the grand ballroom of the Moretti estate.
The room was a sea of crystal chandeliers, live jazz, pouring champagne, and high-stakes tension. Men in Italian suits leaned over velvet-covered blackjack tables, surrounded by women in couture dresses.
Martha took Damian’s offered arm, feeling the rock-solid muscle beneath his sleeve.
Across the crowded room, standing near a balcony overlooking the ocean, was Victor Renzi.
He was dressed in a tailored navy suit, holding a crystal glass of scotch, laughing with Lorenzo Moretti—a cruel-looking man in his sixties with white hair and cold, calculating eyes.
“There he is,” Martha whispered.
“Keep your eyes moving,” Damian murmured, pulling her gently toward the secondary VIP lounge. “Victor thinks he’s here to sign the deed transferring my shipping ports to Moretti. The main server room holding the decryption key is upstairs in Moretti’s private office.”
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“How do we get up there?”
Damian glanced down at her emerald dress, a faint, dangerous smile playing on his lips. “We create a distraction.”
