Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Marble Halls
The Moretti estate in Westchester County looked less like a home and more like a medieval stronghold wrapped in modern glass and steel. As the Escalade swept through the massive wrought-iron gates, armed guards stationed at every corner tracked our movement with cold efficiency.
Ricardo led me through a cavernous foyer of white marble and minimalist art. There were no family portraits, no warmth, no signs of life—just cold stone and echoing silence.
"He's in the west wing," Ricardo said, loosening his tie as we walked down a dimly lit corridor. "Dante has been trying to settle him, but—"
A crash interrupted him.
Glass shattering against a hardwood floor echoed down the hallway, followed by Dante’s frustrated voice. Without waiting for Ricardo, I quickened my pace and pushed open the heavy oak doors of the nursery.
Leo was standing on top of an antique mahogany dresser, clutching a framed photograph to his chest while screaming at two exhausted guards who stood with their hands raised defensively. Dante, his knuckles still wrapped in a clean bandage from the restaurant bite, looked ready to pull his hair out.
"Leo," I said, stopping just inside the doorway.
The boy froze. His tear-streaked face turned toward me, his chest heaving. The guards shifted, but I held up a single hand, signaling them to back away.
"Put the frame down gently," I said, keeping my tone low, steady, and utterly devoid of fear. "You're going to break the glass, and then you won't be able to see her face clearly anymore."
Leo’s lower lip quivered. He looked down at the picture of a beautiful woman with dark, kind eyes—his mother. Slowly, carefully, he set the frame down on the dresser and climbed down, his small sneakers hitting the rug with a soft thud.
He didn't run to his father standing in the doorway. He walked straight across the room, wrapped his small arms around my knees, and buried his face in my skirt.
Over the boy's head, I met Ricardo’s stunned gaze. The most feared man in New York looked entirely helpless.
"Get out," Ricardo told the guards and Dante in a low, dangerous tone. They scrambled out of the room within seconds.
"He doesn't want order, Mr. Moretti," I said, resting a gentle hand on Leo’s dark curls. "He wants grief. He wants someone to tell him it's okay to miss her, instead of hiding behind walls of stone and armed men."
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Ricardo stepped further into the room, his footsteps silent on the deep carpet. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at his son with an expression that twisted my heart. For all his power, money, and control, Ricardo Moretti was drowning in a grief he didn't know how to share.
"Teach me," Ricardo whispered, the words sounding heavy and foreign on his tongue. "Tell me what to do."
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