Chapter 2 - Welcome Home, Princess
At 8:47 Monday morning, the Sovereign entered Charleston Harbor.
People stopped walking.
Cars slowed.
Phones appeared everywhere.
The yacht was nearly 240 feet of polished black hull, white upper decks, gold detailing, and tinted glass.
Four security boats surrounded it.
Harbor traffic shifted around them.
On Pier 6, six black vehicles waited.
I stood at the end of the dock wearing an ivory silk dress and carrying one small clutch.
Seven years earlier, I had left my family in jeans and sneakers.
Apparently, I was returning with considerably more drama.
“Miss?”
A harbor employee approached nervously.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the yacht.
“Someone on that?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows rose.
Before he could ask anything else, the gangway lowered.
Men in black stepped onto the pier.
Then Damiano appeared.
He was forty now.
Older than when I had last seen him.
Broader.
Harder.
Black suit.
Open collar.
Dark hair swept back.
Tattoos visible across his hands.
To newspapers, Damiano Moretti was chairman of Moretti Maritime Holdings.
To federal investigators, he was something considerably more complicated.
To me, he was the boy who once broke a seventeen-year-old's nose for making me cry at a school dance.
He walked toward me.
Stopped.
Looked at my face.
For one second, the feared Damiano Moretti disappeared.
I saw my brother.
Then he dropped to one knee.
Every conversation on the pier stopped.
He took my hand.
“Welcome home, Princess.”
I sighed.
“Damiano.”
His mouth twitched.
“Seven years.”
“Stand up.”
“Say please.”
“You sailed a 240-foot yacht into Charleston to annoy me?”
“Partly.”
“Stand.”
He kissed my hand.
Then rose.
Behind him, several men were openly smiling.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Who told Father?”
Damiano's smile vanished.
“Everyone except me.”
“Oh, no.”
“He's waiting in New York.”
“Damiano—”
“He knows about the divorce.”
“Wonderful.”
“He also knows Mercer made you sign on Friday.”
I stared at him.
“How?”
Damiano gave me a look.
Right.
Morettis.
I had forgotten.
Then his attention shifted beyond my shoulder.
Upward.
Toward the glass tower overlooking the harbor.
“Is that his building?”
“Yes.”
“Is he watching?”
“Probably.”
“Good.”
“Damiano.”
“What?”
“You're enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
---
Fourteen floors above us, Elias Mercer wasn't enjoying anything.
His assistant Marcus stood beside him.
“Who is she?” Elias demanded.
Marcus didn't answer.
“Marcus.”
“I’m checking.”
“Check faster.”
Across the office, Claudia rose from the conference table.
“What's happening?”
Elias pointed toward the harbor.
“Serena.”
Claudia walked to the window.
Below them, Damiano Moretti had just kissed my hand.
Her smile faded.
“That can't be Serena.”
Elias turned.
“What does that mean?”
“She doesn't know people like that.”
Apparently, neither of them noticed the absurdity of discussing what I knew while proving they had never known me.
Marcus suddenly looked up from his phone.
His face had gone pale.
“Elias.”
“What?”
“I found something.”
He placed his phone on the desk.
An old photograph filled the screen.
Damiano, perhaps twenty-five.
Beside him stood a younger version of me.
Behind us was another man.
Vittorio Moretti.
Our father.
The headline read:
MORETTI HEIRESS VANISHES FROM PUBLIC LIFE
Elias stared.
“No.”
Marcus scrolled.
Another photograph.
Me at sixteen.
Another at nineteen.
Another beside a yacht in Monaco.
Claudia snatched the phone.
“Serena Moretti?”
Elias whispered my maiden name.
“Serena Moretti.”
Marcus swallowed.
“Apparently she stopped using it seven years ago.”
Elias looked down at the pier.
Damiano had placed his coat around my shoulders.
“Why didn't she tell me?”
Claudia recovered first.
“Because she's manipulating you.”
Marcus looked at her.
“By hiding that she's the daughter of one of the most powerful shipping families in America?”
Claudia glared at him.
Marcus cleared his throat.
“I'll leave.”
“No,” Elias said.
He couldn't stop staring down.
“Find out where they're going.”
---
Damiano escorted me aboard.
The moment we entered the private salon, an elderly woman came charging toward me.
“Serena!”
“Aunt Bianca.”
She wrapped me in her arms.
Then smacked Damiano on the shoulder.
“You let her stand on the dock?”
“She was there twelve seconds.”
“Twelve seconds too long.”
I laughed.
Then a video screen on the wall activated.
My father appeared.
Vittorio Moretti.
Seventy-one.
Silver hair.
Dark suit.
Still capable of silencing a room without raising his voice.
He stared at me.
I stared back.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally he said, “Seven years.”
“I know.”
“You married a Mercer.”
“Yes.”
“He divorced you.”
“Yes.”
“May I destroy him?”
“No.”
Damiano muttered, “I already asked.”
My father glared at him.
Then looked back at me.
“Are you coming home?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
His expression softened.
“Then nothing else matters.”
For the first time all morning, my composure almost broke.
Almost.
Then someone entered.
“Mr. Moretti, we have a situation.”
Damiano turned.
“What?”
“Leonard Voss has requested an emergency meeting.”
I froze.
“Voss?”
“Yes.”
Damiano looked at me.
“You know him?”
“He's the man who convinced Elias I was worthless.”
My brother's expression became dangerously calm.
“Well.”
He buttoned his jacket.
May you like
“This trip just became interesting.”
---
