Page 19 of Depths of Desire
"Luna," I say. "Let’s go."
She blinks, looking at me. "Go where?"
"Not staying here. Let’s get you a hot shower, some food, and a bed."
She exhales. "That sounds like heaven."
I just watch her as she moves toward me, slow, stiff. She’s hurting. And I don’t like it, because I feel like I’m hurting by extension.
A black Mercedes sedan hums beneath my fingers as I pull out of the warehouse, the smooth purr of the engine cutting through the silence between us.
Luna sits in the passenger seat, wrapped in a blanket, her damp hair curling against her cheek. She’s quiet—too quiet—but I don’t push. She’s exhausted, and I can feel the weight of everything pressing down on her.
The dark streets are lined with looming shipping containers. Skeletal cranes are silhouetted against the night sky and fall away behind us. In the distance, the city lights cast a hazy glow. But I don’t take the main roads. Instead, I wind through the back streets, keeping off the radar.
Luna shifts beside me, finally breaking the silence. "Where are we going?"
I keep my eyes on the road. "A safe house."
She exhales slowly. "I figured. Which one?"
She’s not stupid. She knows my family has properties scattered across Europe—places meant to disappear into when things get messy. "Not one of my family’s," I say, keeping my tone even. "This one is mine."
Her gaze sharpens, her fingers tightening around the blanket. "Why?"
I let a smirk curl the corner of my mouth. "Doing you a favor, sunshine. If we go to one of the Valdici safe houses, someone will find out you’re with me. And I don’t think you want that."
She doesn’t argue, but I catch the way her shoulders stiffen. She knows I’m right. This isn’t just about keeping her hidden. It’s about protecting her from my own family. Because if my father knew she was with me, he’d see her as nothing more than a pawn in whatever game is being played. And for some reason, that doesn’t sit right with me.
Luna lets out a quiet sigh and turns to stare out the window. She doesn’t ask any more questions. Maybe she’s too tired, or maybe she’s starting to trust me. Either way, she’s mine to protect now. I take comfort in the fact that her heart isn’t racing in fear right now. If anything, to my senses, the beat is sluggish.
The drive takes a little over two hours, winding along the coastal roads of the French Riviera, the dark Mediterranean stretching endlessly beyond the cliffs. The scent of the sea filters through the car, mingling with the rich leather interior.
Luna dozes off somewhere around Alassio, her head lolling against the window, her breathing soft and even. She’s still fighting sleep, though—I can tell by the way her fingers twitch in her lap, like she’s afraid to let go completely.
I pull off the main road and into Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, the exclusive peninsula just outside of Nice. The town is quiet at this hour, the streets lined with white villas, their manicured gardens hidden behind high gates.
I take a private road leading up to the long, serpentine driveway, tires whispering over smooth cobblestones as we pass a long border of towering cypress trees. I love it here. I’ve kept this house for a long time, hiding my identity over the years. It’s one of the few things I’ve kept that connects me to my past.
Motion-sensor lights blink on as we approach, casting long, ghostly shadows over the hedges and ivy-covered walls. The wrought-iron gate at the bottom of the hill starts to open once I confirm my identity with an iris scan. Hidden cameras pivot silently on well-oiled mounts, tracking our progress. I know that inside the security room in the outbuilding, men are watching to make sure I’m safe.
I glance at Luna, but she’s still asleep.
The villa appears slowly—first as a silhouette against the night sky, then fully illuminated by subtle, elegant uplighting that bathes the cream-colored stone façade in warm amber. The structure perches on the hillside like a sentinel, looking out over the dark shimmer of the Mediterranean far below.
Terracotta roof tiles gleam under the moonlight. Shutters are closed, but the soft glow from interior sconces hints at activity within. The driveway circles a grand stone fountain, its gentle trickle the only sound beyond the hum of the car’s engine. Discreet, modern garden lights line the pathway, guiding them to the front steps like a landing strip.
I take it all in—arched windows, intricate wrought iron balconies, and the faint scent of lavender on the wind. The villa is stunning. Opulent. It’s also an impenetrable fortress. And as I shut off the engine, I smile. The most important feature of the villa is that it’s mine. Only mine.
She stirs now that the engine is off, blinking up at me with sleepy confusion. "We’re here?"
"Yeah." I step out and skirt the front end to open her door.
She frowns but says nothing, letting me help her out. Her legs wobble slightly, but she catches herself, always so damn stubborn. I keep my arm around her as we go up the stairs. She doesn’t ask where we are. Maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe she’s too tired.
The heavy oak door opens with a quiet click—no creak, no groan—just the whisper of finely engineered hinges. I punch in a code on a discreet panel inside the door frame, and immediately there is the soft sound of locks sliding into place behind them.
The villa is cool and quiet. The interior air scented faintly with orange blossom and old wood. Recessed lighting casts a warm, golden glow over polished travertine floors which stretch into the distance. Arched doorways and tall ceilings create an elegant openness, yet every shadow seems deliberate—designed to conceal as much as it reveals.
