All Yours

XXVI

LORENZO

Waking up in the same position as the last two mornings has been pure fucking perfection.

Aurora rests peacefully on top of me, her soft breaths tickling my neck. The faint scent of her shampoo still lingers, blending into my own. My arms wrap around her, holding her like a lifeline. Her body fits so perfectly against mine it feels like she was carved just for me.

Every so often, she lets out these little whimpers as she shifts in her sleep, burrowing closer to me, and it makes my heart ache in ways I can't even begin to describe. She's so breathtaking, so innocent, so mine. I don't ever want to let go.

But as much as I want to stay like this forever, I know the morning is slipping away from us. My father is expecting us, and I'll have to wake her soon.

My thoughts drift back to yesterday—the moment my father pulled me and my brothers aside after the meeting.

"What is it, Pa?" I asked impatiently, annoyed at having to leave Aurora alone.

We gathered in a small lounge near the conference room. Alessandro leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Giovanni watched our father with narrowed eyes.

My father opened his briefcase and handed each of us a thin stack of papers. I didn't think much of it at first—just another business file—but when I saw Aurora's name at the top, my chest tightened.

"Aurora?" I said cautiously, flipping through the pages.

The first few lines were familiar, similar to the report I'd commissioned on her after we first met. But this...this was far more detailed.

I stopped when I reached a page that made my blood run cold.

"Louis Moreau," I read aloud, my voice barely above a whisper.

Father nodded solemnly.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "You've been watching me in New York?"

"She looked too familiar, Enzo," he said. "I had to check."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You had someone follow me?"

"I needed to be sure," he said firmly, his eyes piercing into mine. "And once I was, I couldn't let you stay in the dark."

My eyes dropped back to the page, and I reread it, over and over, hoping the words would change.

Louis Moreau. Father.

The name was all too familiar. Louis Moreau wasn't just anyone.

Louis Moreau was a man my entire family knew intimately. He wasn't just an acquaintance or a passing figure—he was welcomed into our home as though he was flesh and blood, another Moretti in spirit if not by name.

The French and Italians have never seen eye to eye. But my father? He didn't care about old rivalries or the biases of heritage. To him, Louis was a brother. DNA didn't matter; loyalty did. And my father's loyalty was unshakable—a pillar even the strongest storm couldn't topple.

But loyalty isn't something you take for granted, let alone betray. And Louis, blinded by his own greed, shattered it into pieces.

Louis started his company in France, funded by a hefty allowance from his grandfather—a silver spoon from birth. He always joked about it, comparing his success to my father's achievements, but his laughter carried an edge. Now, looking back, it's obvious: those jokes weren't harmless banter. They were fueled by envy. By resentment. By a jealousy so deep it consumed him.