Chapter 5 - The First Night
The nursery suite assigned to Clara was larger than her entire apartment in Astoria. It featured a plush king-sized bed, a private en-suite bathroom with a marble soaking tub, custom mahogany bookshelves, and French doors that opened out onto a private balcony overlooking the estate's sprawling gardens.
Yet, despite the luxury, Clara found it difficult to sleep.
It was 2:00 AM. The house was dead silent, save for the faint hum of the central climate control. Clara sat in a comfortable velvet armchair by the window, wearing an oversized flannel pajama shirt, staring out into the dark gardens.
Suddenly, a soft, pathetic whimper echoed through the baby monitor sitting on her bedside table.
Clara was on her feet instantly. She didn't bother grabbing a robe; she padded quietly across the thick Persian rug and slipped through the connecting door into Leo’s room.
The nursery was dimly lit by a glowing star projector casting constellations across the ceiling. Leo was thrashing in his crib, sobbing violently, his small body soaked in a cold sweat. Nightmares. The same nightmares he had suffered every single night since his mother was killed.
"No, no, Mama! Don't go!" Leo choked out, his voice cracking with a heartbreaking desperation that made Clara’s chest constrict.
Clara didn't hesitate. She unlocked the side of the crib, reached in, and scooped the heavy, trembling toddler directly into her arms. Leo wrapped his arms around her neck so tightly she could barely breathe, burying his face into the crook of her shoulder.
"I've got you, Leo. I'm right here," Clara whispered, rocking him gently from side to side. "You're safe. I'm not going anywhere."
She carried him out of the nursery, walking down the softly lit hallway toward the large window seat at the end of the corridor, where the moonlight poured in. She sat down, pulling a plush cashmere blanket over both of them, and began to softly hum a lullaby her own mother used to sing.
Minutes ticked by. Leo’s frantic breathing slowly began to sync with the rhythm of Clara’s heart. His little fists, which had been clenched into tight balls of terror, gradually relaxed against her collarbone.
"Sing again," Leo whispered, his voice small, raspy, and broken.
Clara froze.
Her breath caught in her throat. It was the first time in six months—the very first time since the shooting—that Leo had spoken a coherent sentence to anyone other than a scream of rage.
Tears pricked the corners of Clara’s eyes, but she swallowed hard and continued to hum, rocking him gently in the quiet moonlight.
Unbeknownst to them, standing ten feet away in the shadows of the dimly lit hallway, Rico Moretti stood completely motionless. He had woken up from his own nightmares—as he did every night—and had been walking toward the kitchen to get a glass of water when he heard the soft humming.
Rico watched from the shadows. He saw the way Clara held his son. He saw the profound, unconditional tenderness in her eyes. And, for the first time in six agonizing months, he heard his son's voice.
May you like
A heavy, suffocating weight that had rested on Rico's chest since Elena's death shifted just a fraction. He didn't interrupt them. He silently turned around, walked back to his dark, empty bedroom, and sat on the edge of his bed, staring out into the night with a new, terrifying realization taking root in his mind:
He was starting to care far too much about the waitress from Brooklyn.
