Chapter 3 - The Unspoken Truce
Morning broke over Boston with a cold, grey drizzle that blurred the harbor views from the estate’s tall arched windows. Isabella was up before dawn, moving quietly through the kitchen to prepare breakfast before the household woke. She moved with practiced efficiency, brewing dark roast coffee for Dominic and preparing a simple bowl of oatmeal with sliced strawberries for Lily.
She did not expect to find Leo sitting quietly at the end of the long mahogany dining table when she emerged from the pantry.
The boy was dressed in a crisp grey wool sweater and dark trousers, his small legs dangling inches above the floor. He wasn't playing with a toy, nor was he reading a book; he was simply staring down at his empty plate, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
"Good morning, Leo," Isabella said softly, keeping her voice light and non-threatening as she placed a bowl of fruit and toast in front of him.
Leo didn't look up immediately. He glanced sideways toward the doorway, checking the perimeter with the hyper-vigilance of a seasoned soldier before whispering, "Is Lily awake?"
A faint, involuntary smile touched Isabella’s lips. "She’s still sleeping. She wakes up slowly, unlike you."
"She was funny yesterday," Leo murmured, his small fingers tracing the edge of the ceramic bowl. "When she fell in the soap. She didn't cry. Most kids cry when they fall."
"Lily is... resilient," Isabella replied, pulling out a chair a few seats away to give him space while keeping him company. "She likes new adventures. Even messy ones."
Before Leo could respond, the heavy footsteps of Dominic Moretti echoed down the parquet hallway. The temperature in the dining room dropped instantly. Leo’s spine snapped straight, his hands snapping back into his lap, his eyes fixing rigidly on his breakfast.
Dominic entered the room, impeccably dressed as always, his silver-streaked dark hair combed back with military precision. His cold eyes swept over Isabella and his son, noting the proximity between them. A muscle ticked sharply along his jawline.
"Isabella," Dominic said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. "Your duties are in the East wing this morning. Leave Leo to his tutor."
"Yes, Mr. Moretti," Isabella replied smoothly, dipping her head in a respectful nod. She turned to Leo, giving him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "Eat your breakfast, Leo. I'll see you later."
As Isabella walked past Dominic toward the exit, she caught the subtle way the mafia boss stiffened as her shoulder brushed past his sleeve. He smelled of expensive cedarwood, gunpowder, and old money. She didn't stop, pushing through the swinging doors into the pantry, but she left the door slightly cracked.
Through the narrow gap, she watched Dominic take the seat at the head of the massive table—a seat far too large for him, yet somehow terrifyingly well-fitted. He didn't touch his coffee. Instead, he looked across the expanse of polished wood at his son.
"Leo," Dominic said, his tone softening by a fraction—a microscopic shift that only a mother living in his shadow would notice. "The tutor will be here at nine. Finish your work."
"Yes, Father," Leo whispered, his voice small, obedient, and utterly devoid of childhood spirit.
May you like
Dominic reached out, his large, scarred hand hesitating for a fraction of a second above Leo’s head, as if he wanted to reach across the table and ruffle the boy's hair. But the hand stopped, curled into a tight fist, and withdrew back to his side. Dominic stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor, and strode out of the room without another word.
Isabella watched him go, a profound wave of sadness washing over her. The man commanded an empire of violence, yet he was entirely powerless against the ghosts haunting his own dining room.
