Chapter 3 - BREAKFAST WITH THE MORETTIS
The morning sun broke through the heavy Chicago smog, casting a pale, sickly yellow light across the breakfast room of the Moretti estate. It was an enormous room with floor-to-ceiling windows, a marble fireplace imported from a 17th-century French chateau, and a dining table long enough to seat twenty people—though only one person ever sat at it.
Dante Moretti sat at the far end of the table, cutting into a rare steak with clinical precision. He wore a charcoal-grey tailored suit, his tie knotted to perfection, looking every bit the ruthless syndicate boss who commanded the city's docks and unions.
Across from him sat Mia and Bella. For the first time in three years, they weren't screaming, throwing tantrums, or hiding under the furniture. They sat quietly in their high chairs, nibbling on toasted brioche and sliced strawberries. And right between them, looking entirely out of place in her borrowed, ill-fitting maid's uniform, sat Sarah Jenkins.
Arthur, the elderly butler, hovered nearby, pouring dark, bitter espresso into Dante’s cup. Arthur’s eyes flicked frequently toward Sarah, a mixture of profound shock and cautious respect written across his weathered face. In thirty years of service to the Moretti family, Arthur had never seen the twins sit peacefully with a new employee past 7:00 AM. Usually, the previous nannies were already in the back of an ambulance or fleeing down the driveway by dawn.
"Eat your fruit, Bella," Sarah murmured gently, cutting a strawberry into small, manageable pieces.
Bella nodded, popping the piece into her mouth without a fuss. On the other side, Mia pointed a small finger at the silver pitcher. "Milk, please, Sarah."
Sarah smiled softly, pouring a small glass of milk and handing it over. "Here you go, sweetheart. Careful not to spill."
At the end of the table, Dante stopped chewing. He laid his knife and fork down against the porcelain plate with a sharp clink. The silence in the room instantly thickened. Mia and Bella instinctively shrank back just a fraction, the trauma of their father's imposing presence still lingering under their skin.
"They haven't eaten breakfast without throwing a plate at Arthur in three years," Dante said, his voice cold and analytical. He picked up his espresso cup, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Sarah. "What's your secret, Miss Jenkins? Hypnosis? Sedatives?"
Sarah set her napkin down on the table, her jaw tightening. She was exhausted, having only grabbed two hours of broken sleep in the armchair while the twins rested securely against her. The polite, submissive waitress facade was beginning to crack under the relentless pressure of Dante's interrogation.
"I didn't drug them, Mr. Moretti," Sarah replied sharply, meeting his piercing gaze head-on. "Some children don't need sedatives. They just need someone who doesn't treat them like a pair of ticking time bombs."
Arthur let out a sharp, involuntary gasp and quickly coughed into his fist to cover it. No one spoke to Dante Moretti like that. Not rival capos, not corrupt city councilmen, and certainly not a twenty-four-year-old broke waitress from the South Side.
Dante didn't yell. He didn't slam his fist on the table. Instead, a slow, dangerous intensity crept into his eyes. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the mahogany surface.
"You have a sharp tongue for someone whose survival depends entirely on my goodwill," Dante said softly, his voice dropping an octave. "Bravery is a luxury, Miss Jenkins. In my world, it usually gets people buried in unmarked graves near the Indiana border."
"Then it's a good thing I'm not in your world," Sarah fired back, her hands trembling slightly under the table where he couldn't see them. "I'm a nanny. I'm here to take care of your daughters because you're too busy playing God with union leaders to do it yourself. If you have a problem with how I talk, you can write me my check for the last twenty-four hours and I'll walk out that front door right now. Let's see how long your daughters sleep tonight without the lullaby."
The silence that followed was absolute. You could hear the distant hum of the mansion's climate control system.
Mia looked back and forth between her father and Sarah, her lower lip beginning to quiver. Bella instinctively reached out, her small fingers wrapping tightly around Sarah’s thumb.
Dante stared at Sarah. For a moment, the air between them crackled with raw, antagonistic electricity. He was a man accustomed to total submission. Every person in his orbit either feared him, worshipped him, or betrayed him. No one talked back. No one challenged his authority in his own dining room.
Instead of exploding, a strange, dark shadow crossed Dante’s face—something resembling reluctant amusement, quickly masked by his habitual stone wall.
"You're testing me," Dante said quietly, picking up his espresso cup and taking a slow sip. "You think because you managed to put my daughters to sleep for one night, you have leverage."
"I don't want leverage, Mr. Moretti. I want my five thousand dollars a week so my brother doesn't lose his fingers," Sarah said bluntly. "That's the deal. You get quiet nights, I get money to save my family. End of transaction."
Dante held her gaze for three seconds longer before standing up from the table. His tall, imposing frame cast a long shadow across the room.
"Transaction accepted," Dante said coldly, buttoning his suit jacket. He tossed a heavy, black leather cardholder onto the table near her coffee cup. "Arthur, assign Miss Jenkins a proper bedroom on the second floor, adjacent to the nursery. Provide her with a clothing allowance. I refuse to have someone wearing a frayed polyester uniform representing the Moretti household."
"Yes, sir," Arthur said respectfully, bowing his head.
Dante turned and walked toward the grand double doors of the dining room. Just before stepping out into the hallway, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.
"And Miss Jenkins?"
Sarah looked up, her heart skipping a beat. "What?"
"Don't ever mistake my absence for neglect," Dante said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I am always watching. If you try to run, or if you are working for Viktor, I will find you before you reach the end of the driveway."
With that, he strode out, the heavy oak doors closing behind him with a dull, heavy thud.
Sarah let out a long, ragged breath she didn't realize she’d been holding, her shoulders slumping forward. Across the table, Bella patted her hand reassuringly.
"Don't worry, Sarah," the little girl whispered earnestly. "Daddy is just grumpy because he doesn't have a mommy."
May you like
Sarah blinked, a sudden, sharp ache piercing her chest as she looked down at the four-year-old child who had seen too much of the dark side of life. She pulled Bella closer, kissing the top of her dark curls.
"I know, sweet girl," Sarah whispered. "I know."
