Chapter 5 - The Moretti Estate
The Moretti estate sat behind towering iron gates in a secluded pocket of Staten Island, resembling a modern fortress more than a family home. High stone walls, discreet security cameras, and armed patrols guarded the perimeter. Yet, once inside the main foyer, the house felt cavernous, cold, and profoundly empty. It was a palace devoid of warmth, echoing with the ghosts of a shattered past.
Clara stepped out of the Maybach, still cradling Leo, who had fallen into a deep, exhausted slumber against her chest. Dante hovered nearby, looking distinctly uncomfortable carrying a diaper bag that Rico had hastily ordered from a private service en route.
"His room is on the second floor, at the end of the eastern wing," Rico instructed, leading the way up a sweeping marble staircase. His strides were long and purposeful. "Nurse Marta usually tries to put him down around nine, but she gave up hours ago."
"Marta is a professional," Clara murmured as she followed him up the stairs, her eyes taking in the expensive paintings and minimalist, intimidating decor. "Kids don't need professionals when they're grieving, Mr. Moretti. They need someone who isn't afraid of their mess."
Rico paused at the top of the landing, turning his head to look at her. The dim hallway lighting cast sharp shadows across his angular jaw. "You aren't afraid of much, are you, Clara?"
"I've lived in Chicago, Mr. Moretti," Clara replied dryly. "Fear is just a waste of good energy."
They reached Leo’s bedroom. Unlike the rest of the cold, dark estate, the nursery was a sprawling suite painted in soft blues and creams, filled with expensive toys that remained completely untouched in their boxes. A king-sized crib sat in the center, surrounded by plush animals.
Clara gently laid Leo down in the center of the large bed, careful not to wake him. However, the moment her hands separated from his small body, Leo’s eyes fluttered open, panic instantly flooding his features. He let out a sharp gasp, his small hands grabbing blindly for the air.
Before the cry could escape his throat, Clara slipped her hand back into his tiny palm. "I'm right here, Leo. I'm not going anywhere."
Leo instantly relaxed, his breathing evening out as he clutched her finger like a lifeline, pulling her hand close to his chest and drifting back into sleep within seconds.
Clara stood awkwardly beside the bed, half-bent over to maintain the connection.
Rico watched from the doorway, his broad shoulders leaning against the frame. A complex mix of emotions crossed his face—relief, exhaustion, and a strange, foreign ache in his chest. For six months, bedtime had been a battlefield of screaming, crying, and sedatives prescribed by panicked doctors. Tonight, it took one waitress with tired eyes and a glass of warm milk.
"He trusts you," Rico said quietly, his voice softening. "That’s... more than he's done for anyone since Elena died."
"He doesn't trust me yet, Mr. Moretti," Clara corrected softly, keeping her eyes on the sleeping boy. "He just recognizes someone who isn't trying to fix him with a checkbook or hide him away in a nursery. He misses his mother."
Rico flinched as if struck. He pushed away from the doorframe and walked over to the window, staring out into the dark gardens below where the moonlight hit the manicured hedges.
May you like
"She was sitting right there in the passenger seat," Rico muttered, his voice cracking slightly before he caught himself. "The shooter used an automatic rifle from a passing van. It was meant for me. Always meant for me. I brought the war to my own doorstep, and she paid the price."
Clara felt a sudden pang of deep empathy pierce through her professional armor. She looked at the powerful capo of the Moretti family and saw what everyone else missed: a man carrying a mountain of guilt so heavy it was crushing him alive.
