Page 16 of Ruined By Protection (Feretti Syndicate #5)

Hazel

T he law office of Maria Gianelli sits on the thirty-second floor of a sleek Manhattan high-rise.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the city sprawling beneath us, but I barely notice the view.

My hands twist nervously in my lap as I sit beside Evelyn on a leather couch, facing the imposing mahogany desk where Ms. Gianelli reviews my situation.

Daniel waits outside in the hallway, giving us privacy while maintaining his watchful position.

"So let me make sure I understand correctly," Ms. Gianelli says, her dark eyes sharp with intelligence.

She's striking—tall with olive skin and sleek black hair pulled into a tight bun.

"You've left your husband of two years, Elliott Montgomery, CEO of Montgomery Industries, due to ongoing physical and emotional abuse. "

I nod, my throat tight. "Yes."

"And you've brought no documentation of this abuse? No police reports, hospital records, photographs?"

"I have these," I say quietly, pulling up my sleeve to reveal the finger-shaped bruises on my forearm. "And more. But no, I never reported anything."

Ms. Gianelli's expression softens slightly. "May I?" she asks, gesturing to my arm.

When I nod, she comes around her desk and examines the bruises, her touch professional and gentle. "These are clearly fingermarks. Recent?"

"Two days ago," I confirm. "Before I left."

She returns to her seat, making notes in an elegant leather portfolio. "Mrs. Montgomery?—"

"Taylor," I interrupt. "Please call me Hazel Taylor."

She nods, understanding in her eyes. "Ms. Taylor, I won't sugarcoat this. Divorcing a man of your husband's wealth and influence will be challenging. Montgomery Industries is a Fortune 500 company with considerable resources at their disposal."

"I don't want his money," I say quickly. "I just want out."

"It's rarely that simple," Ms. Gianelli replies. "Especially when abuse is involved. Men like Elliott Montgomery don't relinquish control easily."

Evelyn leans forward. "Damiano said you're the best. That's why we're here."

At the mention of Damiano's name, something shifts in Ms. Gianelli's demeanor—a subtle straightening of her spine, a new attentiveness.

"Don Feretti has been a valuable client for many years," she says carefully. "If he sent you to me then you'll have my full attention and resources. But that doesn't mean it is going to be easy."

The way she says ‘Don’ makes it clear she knows exactly who and what Damiano is. I wonder how many times she's helped the Feretti family navigate legal troubles, extricated them from criminal prosecution via some smart legal maneuvering.

"Here's what we need to do immediately," Ms. Gianelli continues, all business now. "First, we document those bruises professionally. I'll have a medical examiner I trust meet us at my private office this afternoon."

She opens a drawer and pulls out a sleek smartphone still in its packaging.

"Second, you need a secure phone that your husband can't track.

This is a burner with a new number. It's clean, but don't use it to contact anyone from your previous life just yet.

I've talked with Mr Feretti regarding this. "

I take the phone, surprised by her preparedness. "Thank you."

"Third, we file for an emergency restraining order. With photographic evidence of your injuries and your testimony, we should be able to secure that quickly."

"What about my family?" I ask, the worry that's been gnawing at me since I fled Austin bubbling to the surface. "My parents, my brother—Elliott controls everything. My mom's job, my dad's medical care, Jake's scholarship..."

Ms. Gianelli's eyes narrow. "Financial abuse is often overlooked but equally damaging. We'll need to document how he's used financial control to isolate you."

"He'll hurt them to get to me," I whisper.

"Not if we move quickly and strategically," Ms. Gianelli assures me. "I assume you've taken steps to ensure he can't trace you here?"

"I only used cash," I confirm. "And I left my phone behind."

"Good. Now, regarding your assets?—"

"I don't have any," I interrupt. "Everything's in his name. The house, the cars, the bank accounts... I only have what I managed to save secretly. About eight thousand dollars in cash."

Ms. Gianelli makes another note. "We'll file for temporary spousal support along with the divorce petition. Given the circumstances and the disparity in your financial situations, the court should be sympathetic."

Evelyn places her hand over mine. "And in the meantime, you're staying with us. Damiano was very clear about that."

The lawyer nods approvingly. "That's good. You need a secure location he can't access. Now, let's talk about the divorce filing itself."

She pulls out several forms and places them in front of me. "We'll cite irreconcilable differences publicly, but privately document the abuse for the judge's eyes only. This protects you from immediate retaliation while we’re building our case."

I stare at the papers, overwhelmed by what lies ahead. "How long will this take?"

"Honestly? It depends on how hard he fights it. A contested divorce with someone of his resources could take a year or more."

A year. The thought makes me sick. A year of looking over my shoulder, a year of fearing for my family, a year of not being truly free.

"But," Ms. Gianelli continues, her voice clipped, "the restraining order will provide immediate legal protection. And..." she hesitates, choosing her words carefully, "having the Feretti family's support offers certain... practical advantages that most of my clients don't enjoy."

I understand what she's not saying. Mafia protection means something in this city.

"What do I need to do right now?" I ask, ready to take the first step.

Ms. Gianelli slides the forms toward me. "Start by telling me everything. Every incident, every threat, every control tactic. Leave nothing out. The more ammunition I have, the stronger our position."

I take a deep breath and begin to unpack the nightmare of my marriage, one painful memory at a time.

Matteo

My head pounds like someone's applying a jackhammer to my skull. That's what I get for mixing bourbon with scotch last night. Not my finest decision, but sleep wouldn't come after seeing Hazel at dinner—Hazel fucking Taylor, sitting at the Feretti table like she belonged there.

I rub my temples, sitting in my car outside the casino after wrapping up the meeting. The sun's too bright, slicing through the windshield despite my sunglasses. I need coffee. And aspirin. Maybe in an IV drip.

Damiano's words from last night keep circling in my head. "She needs protection while she gets her divorce sorted out." Divorce. So she got married. After me.

I grab my phone and dial Daniel.

"Everything good?" I ask when he picks up, keeping my voice neutral despite the throbbing behind my eyes.

"All clear," Daniel responds, his voice low. "Still in the lawyer's office. Been there almost two hours now."

I check my watch. "That long? What the hell are they discussing?"

"Not my business to know," Daniel says, ever the professional.

I know Gianelli. She’s sharp as a tack and ruthless in court. Damiano wouldn't send Hazel to her unless the situation was serious.

What the hell is going on?

"What's the plan after?" I ask, starting the car.

"Taking them to meet Lucrezia at some café she picked. Said she wanted girl time with the new guest."

Lucrezia and her ‘girl time’. More like Lucrezia wanting to satisfy her curiosity about our mysterious visitor. Nothing happens in that house without Lucrezia knowing every detail.

"Which café?" I ask, pulling into traffic.

Daniel names a place in SoHo, one of Lucrezia's favorites. Overpriced lattes and enough privacy for sensitive conversations.

After hanging up I sit at a red light, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel. Married. Hazel got married. To some asshole she's now running from.

The light turns green and I accelerate a little too hard, earning a honk from the idiot in the car beside me. My headache intensifies along with my darkening mood.

What the hell happened to you, Hazel?