The front driver’s side door swung open instantly, and a broad-shouldered man in a dark tactical suit stepped out, his hand instinctively reaching into the lapel of his coat for a weapon. But before he could step around the bumper, the rear passenger door swung open with silent, heavy precision.
A man stepped out into the freezing rain.
He was imposing—at least six-foot-three—with broad, powerful shoulders that effortlessly filled a bespoke midnight-blue cashmere topcoat. His dark, neatly tailored hair was brushed back, lightly dusted with silver at the temples, and his square jaw looked as though it had been carved out of solid, cold granite. But it was his eyes that caught her breathing—piercing, icy-blue, and unnervingly sharp, assessing the entire situation in less than half a second.
"Get up," his voice was a low, velvet baritone that commanded immediate obedience without ever raising its volume.
Corin tried to push herself up off the wet street, but her waterlogged leather heels slipped uselessly against the slick pavement. Without a single word of impatience or irritation, the stranger stepped forward into the downpour. His heavy, leather-gloved hands gripped her waist with terrifying ease, lifting her off the road and setting her gently back onto the dry sidewalk.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his cool blue eyes scanning her face.
"No," Corin whispered, her teeth chattering so hard her jaw ached. "I'm... I'm fine. I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention."
The man didn't look away. His gaze traveled from her wet, disheveled dark curls down to the damp manila envelope still protruding from her handbag, and finally to the clear tears tracing down her pale cheeks. He slowly shifted his gaze past her shoulder, looking through the high glass window of L’Auberge, where Richard was currently raising his glass in a triumphant champagne toast with Vanessa Blake.
The stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly, a cold, dangerous shadow passing over his sharp features.
"That man inside," the stranger said softly, his tone icy enough to freeze the air around them. "Richard Harris?"
Corin blinked in absolute shock, wiping rainwater from her eyes. "You... you know my husband?"
"I know of him," the man replied smoothly. "He owes substantial sums of money to people who do not grant extensions. And tonight, it appears he has discarded a woman far more valuable than the miserable debt he carries."
He signaled his driver with a slight tilt of his head. The driver immediately pulled open the heavy rear door of the Phantom, allowing the warm, amber glow of the vehicle's interior to spill onto the wet pavement.
"My name is Victor Moretti," the man said, extending a gloved hand toward the dry, heated interior of the luxury sedan. "Get inside, Mrs. Harris. It is high time someone taught your husband the true cost of bad math."
The interior of the Rolls-Royce Phantom smelled of rich Connolly leather, aged cedarwood, and a subtle, expensive sandalwood cologne. Corin sat huddled on the plush leather seat, wrapped in a heavy mink blanket that Victor’s driver, a stone-faced man named Matteo, had handed her the very second she stepped inside. The climate control radiated gentle, dry heat, slowly melting the freeze from her limbs.
Victor Moretti sat directly opposite her on the backward-facing bench, an open leather folder containing financial printouts resting across his lap. He didn't offer her patronizing sympathy, hollow pity, or useless platitudes. Instead, he unstoppered a crystal decanter, poured two fingers of amber single-malt scotch into a lowball glass, and offered it to her.
"Drink it," he said softly. "It stops the shock from setting into your blood."
Corin hesitated, then took the glass. Her hands were still trembling, but she forced a small sip down her throat. The liquid burned fiercely down her chest, kindling a small, stubborn fire in her frozen stomach. She looked up and studied the man across from her properly for the first time.
In the Pacific Northwest, the name Morettiwas a word whispered in guarded tones rather than spoken aloud. The Moretti family controlled the deep-water shipping lanes, maritime real estate developments, import logistics, and subterranean financial clearinghouses stretching from Vancouver down to San Francisco. Victor Moretti was not merely a wealthy businessman; he was the undisputed Capo of the syndicate controlling the entire regional coast. He was a man feared by corrupt municipal politicians, federal prosecutors, and rival cartels alike.
"Why are you doing this, Mr. Moretti?" Corin asked, forcing her voice to maintain a calm, professional cadence despite her racing pulse. "Men in your position do not pick up shivering, stranded women on First Avenue out of pure civic charity."