Chapter 4 - The Playground on Beacon Hill
The morning sun filtered through the golden leaves of the massive oak trees in the Boston Public Garden, casting dappled light across the playground woodchips. Adrian sat on a green wooden bench fifty yards away, half-hidden behind the broad trunk of a sycamore, his long legs crossed, an expensive wool coat buttoned to his chin.
Marcus stood silently a few paces behind him like a statue carved from granite.
“They’re over by the swings, Boss,” Marcus murmured, his eyes scanning the perimeter.
Adrian didn’t need to be told. His gaze was locked on two small figures bundled in colorful coats—a little girl with dark, tumbling curls pushing high on a red swing, and a boy with a fierce, concentrated frown digging meticulously in the sandbox with a plastic yellow shovel.
Leo and Maya.
His children.
Every time the little girl—Maya—laughed, a sound like chiming glass drifted across the crisp autumn air, a physical ache bloomed behind Adrian’s sternum. She had his eyes. Exactly his eyes—deep-set, dark amber under heavy, expressive brows. And Leo, the boy in the sandbox, had his exact posture, shoulders squared even at two and a half, his jaw set in stubborn determination as he built a fortress out of damp sand and pinecones.
Standing beside the swings, pushing Maya with gentle, rhythmic ease, was Julian Vance.
Julian wore a tweed jacket today, leaning down to say something that made the little girl giggle and clap her hands. A moment later, Evelyn walked up from the park path carrying two paper cups of coffee, handing one to Julian with a soft, easy smile that Adrian had not seen directed at himself in the entire five years of their marriage.
They looked like a family.
A quiet, domestic, ordinary family that didn't need bodyguards, armored cars, or blood pacts to feel safe.
Adrian’s fingers curled into fists inside his coat pockets, his nails biting into his palms. The temptation to walk over there—to cross the grass, demand his children, and assert his rightful place—burned in his blood. But Evelyn’s words from the night before echoed in his mind like a death sentence: You try to take them, Adrian... and I will tear you apart.
He knew she meant it. Evelyn wasn't the timid, soft-spoken girl he had married when she was twenty-one. Boston had forged her into something unbreakable.
“Boss,” Marcus said quietly, stepping closer. “Victoria is calling from Chicago. Third time this morning.”
Adrian pulled his phone from his pocket, his expression darkening. Victoria Moretti. His mother. The matriarch of the Chicago syndicate, a woman who ate weakness for breakfast and ruled the family with an iron scepter from her ancestral mansion in Lake Forest.
If Victoria found out she had grandchildren living in Boston—legitimate heirs to the Moretti name—she wouldn't just send lawyers. She’d send an army. She would demand the twins be brought to Chicago immediately to be raised under her strict, unforgiving roof, away from the influence of an ordinary restoration artist and an academic.
Adrian swiped the screen and brought the phone to his ear.
“Adrian,” Victoria’s voice came through crisp, imperious, and utterly devoid of warmth. “Why are you in Boston?”
“Business, Mother,” Adrian replied smoothly, keeping his eyes fixed on Maya swinging in the distance.
“Don’t lie to me,” Victoria snapped. “Marcus left a paper trail on the private jet charter, sloppy work for a man of his standing. What are you doing in Massachusetts?”
Adrian let out a slow, controlled breath. “I’m handling a personal matter.”
“If this has anything to do with that ungrateful girl Evelyn Carter, I suggest you get back on that plane immediately,” Victoria said, her tone sharpening into glass. “She made her bed when she walked out on our name. She threw away a throne to live like a pauper. If she’s surface-dwelling in Boston, leave her in the dirt where she belongs.”
“She is the mother of—,” Adrian started, before cutting himself off sharply. He couldn't tell Victoria. Not yet. If Victoria knew about the twins, the children would become pawns in the brutal chess game of the Chicago underworld.
“The mother of what?” Victoria demanded. “Adrian, listen to me. A Moretti does not look backward. If you are lingering around her out of some foolish sentimental weakness, you are forgetting who you are. The syndicate is voting on the tri-state expansion next week. I expect you in Chicago, focused on the table, not chasing ghosts.”
“I’ll be back when I’m ready,” Adrian said coldly, and hung up without waiting for his mother's reply.
May you like
He lowered the phone, his jaw locked. When he looked back up at the playground, Evelyn had turned her head. Across the fifty yards of grass, through the autumn sunlight and falling leaves, her eyes locked directly onto his hiding spot behind the sycamore tree.
She didn't look afraid. She just looked at him with profound, icy disappointment, turned away, and took Maya by the hand, calling to Leo to pack up his shovels.
