Chapter 2 - The Normal Clothes Crisis
The sun had barely crested the horizon when Maria Alvarez knocked timidly on the private master suite door on the second floor of the Moretti mansion. She was dressed in her standard gray housekeeping uniform, her hands wringing a small cotton apron.
The door opened instantly.
Maria gasped, her breath catching in her throat.
Aleandro Moretti—the man who commanded an army of enforcers, wore tailored Italian suits worth more than a working-class car, and terrified judges—was standing before her wearing a pair of faded dark denim jeans, a simple charcoal crewneck sweater, and clean white leather sneakers.
He had no tie. No cufflinks. No Rolex watch glinting from his wrist.
Without his armor of bespoke wool and silk, he looked older, leaner, and terrifyingly human. The sharp angles of his face and the faint scar across his left eyebrow stood out starkly against the casual fabric.
"Is this... acceptable?" Aleandro asked, glancing down at his clothes with mild skepticism. "Mrs. Alvarez? Sophia informed me that 'funeral suits' are strictly prohibited."
Maria swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing. "It’s... it’s perfect, Mr. Moretti. The jeans look... very normal."
"Good," Aleandro said, grabbing a simple black leather jacket from the coat rack. "Where is Sophia?"
"She’s downstairs in the kitchen, eating her cereal," Maria said quickly, leading the way down the grand staircase. "Mr. Moretti, I cannot thank you enough. I know how important your schedule is. If anyone at the school asks, I told her to say you’re a family friend who—"
"I am her borrowed father for twelve hours, Mrs. Alvarez," Aleandro interrupted smoothly. "I do not lie to children. We will stick to the agreement."
Down in the massive industrial kitchen, Sophia was swinging her legs from a high stool, wearing her yellow dress and brand-new pink sneakers. When she saw Aleandro walk in wearing denim and sneakers, she dropped her spoon with a clatter.
"You look like a regular person!" Sophia gasped, sliding off the stool and running over to inspect his jeans. "Where is your briefcase?"
"Left in the study," Aleandro said, crouching down slightly to her eye level—a posture he had never assumed for a politician or a rival boss. "Do we have clearance to proceed to the preschool?"
"Yes!" Sophia cheered, grabbing his large, calloused index finger with her tiny hand. "And you have to hold my hand when we cross the street. That’s what daddies do."
Aleandro looked down at his finger engulfed by her small hand. A strange, unfamiliar warmth rippled through his chest—a sensation he hadn't felt since before the wars, the funerals, and the blood took over his life.
Ten minutes later, a sleek black SUV pulled away from the estate gates. Driving it was Marco Ricci. In the passenger seat, Marco’s fingers tapped rhythmically against his dashboard console. Through the rearview mirror, Marco watched Aleandro and Sophia sitting together in the back seat.
Sophia was chattering away about a cartoon dog, and to Marco’s absolute astonishment, Aleandro Moretti—the ruthless Don—was actually listening, nodding, and asking follow-up questions about the dog's adventures.
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Marco’s jaw tightened. He picked up his burner phone, dialing a encrypted seven-digit number.
"It’s me," Marco muttered quietly into the phone while stopped at a red light. "The schedule is locked. They're heading to St. Jude’s Preschool in Queens. Execute Phase One by noon. Make sure it looks like an accident."
