Chapter 3 - Scars, Paint, and Small Steps
By three o'clock that afternoon, Lorenzo returned to Sunset Tower.
The atmosphere in the penthouse had transformed dramatically.
The dark, sterile apartment was now filled with the sound of children's laughter. In the grand living room, Leo and Mia were sitting on the plush rug in front of the fireplace, wearing brand-new fleece pajamas that Elena had purchased for them. Mia was carefully building a tower out of wooden blocks, while Leo was pushing a toy red fire truck across the polished floorboards.
Dr. Marcus had checked Leo again an hour earlier and declared him completely out of danger, though the boy still had a soft, occasional cough.
Standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows was Beatrice.
She was wearing a simple, elegant cream-colored cashmere sweater and black trousers. Her auburn hair had been washed and dried, falling in rich, wavy curls over her shoulders. She held a warm mug of tea in both hands, staring out at the hazy sun dipping behind the Chicago skyscrapers.
When the front door chimed and Lorenzo stepped into the foyer, the children froze.
Mia immediately scrambled to her feet and hid behind Beatrice’s legs, peering out with her large, gray eyes. Leo stayed on the floor, his hands holding his red fire truck tightly, watching Lorenzo with cautious curiosity.
Beatrice set her tea mug down on the glass side table. "How did it go?"
Lorenzo stepped into the room, taking off his dark suit jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. He looked exhausted, but the tension in his broad shoulders eased slightly as his eyes rested on his family.
"The line has been drawn," Lorenzo said quietly. "Carmine knows that I know the truth."
Beatrice’s hand rose instinctively to her throat. "Did he... did he order a hit?"
"He’s trying to mobilize the Rossi family against me," Lorenzo replied, stepping toward the center of the room. "He thinks he can use Philadelphia to pressure my capos into deposing me. But he’s desperate, Bea. Desperate men make mistakes."
He looked down at Leo, who was staring at his handmade leather boots.
Lorenzo carefully lowered his massive frame onto the wooden floor, crossing his legs and sitting directly on the rug three feet away from his son.
Beatrice watched him in stunned silence. The most feared mob boss in Chicago—a man who commanded hundreds of armed soldiers—was sitting on the floor in an eight-thousand-dollar suit, humbly lowering himself to eye level with a five-year-old boy.
"That’s a nice truck," Lorenzo said softly to Leo, pointing at the toy.
Leo looked down at the fire truck, then up at Lorenzo’s face. "The ladder is stuck," the boy muttered in a tiny, raspy voice. "It doesn't turn."
"May I see it?" Lorenzo asked, holding out his hand palm-up, making no sudden movement.
Leo hesitated. He looked back at Beatrice.
Beatrice gave her son a small, reassuring nod. "It’s okay, Leo."
Leo crawled forward on his hands and knees and placed the plastic red truck into Lorenzo’s large palm.
Lorenzo examined the toy carefully. He saw that a tiny piece of plastic flash from the manufacturing mold was jammed inside the ladder's swivel joint. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, silver pocketknife, and with exquisite precision, shaved away the excess plastic without scratching the red paint.
He clicked the ladder swivel. It rotated smoothly with a satisfying snap.
"There," Lorenzo said, handing the truck back to his son. "Try it now."
Leo took the truck, turned the ladder thirty-six degrees, and a tiny, breathtaking smile broke across his little face. "It works!"
"It works," Lorenzo agreed, his voice rough with emotion.
Mia, seeing her brother's reaction, slowly crept out from behind Beatrice’s legs. She walked over to Lorenzo, holding a yellow wooden block in her tiny hand.
"Build high?" she asked, her voice squeaky and bright.
Lorenzo felt a tear threaten to spill over his eye. He forced it back, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Yeah, sweetie. Let's build it as high as the sky."
For the next two hours, the war outside Sunset Tower ceased to exist.
Lorenzo sat on the rug, letting Mia stack wooden blocks on his head while Leo showed him how fast the fire truck could zoom across the hardwood floor. Lorenzo played with a gentle, patient tenderness that Beatrice had never seen him display during their brief marriage five years ago. Back then, he had been consumed by the pressure of his father’s expectations, always checking his encrypted phone, always carrying the invisible burden of the syndicate on his shoulders.
Now, he was simply a father discovering his children.
Beatrice sat on the sofa, watching them. A deep, agonizing ache blooming in her chest.
She had spent five years hating him. She had spent five years telling herself that Lorenzo Moretti was a monster who had thrown her away like trash.
But looking at him now—watching his large, calloused hands gently catch Mia as she tipped over, listening to him laugh softly at Leo’s sound effects—she realized the brutal, horrifying truth:
They had both been victims of Carmine Moretti’s cruelty.
Around seven in the evening, Elena came into the living room to take the children to the kitchen for dinner and a bedtime story. Leo gave Lorenzo a small high-five before running off, while Mia gave his knee a tight, brief hug before following her brother.
When the room fell quiet again, Lorenzo stood up, stretching his back.
He walked over to a side table near the corner of the living room. On it rested a large, wooden artist's easel, a set of high-grade stretched canvases, and a wooden box containing professional oil paints, camel-hair brushes, and bottles of pure turpentine.
Beatrice froze. She stared at the art supplies.
"Where did you get those?" she whispered.
"I had Mateo pick them up from Zell’s Fine Art Supplies on Wabash Avenue," Lorenzo said, turning to face her. "It was your favorite shop five years ago. I remembered the brand of paints you used."
Beatrice walked over to the easel, her fingers trembling as she brushed over the smooth mahogany wood. She opened the paint box. The scent of linseed oil and turpentine hit her nostrils—a scent she hadn't smelled in half a decade.
Tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her vision.
"Why, Lorenzo?" she asked, her voice cracking. "Why do this now?"
"Because when you walked out of my life five years ago, you stopped painting," Lorenzo said, stepping closer to her, his voice filled with a desperate, profound remorse. "Carmine didn't just steal your safety, Bea. He stole your art. He stole your joy. I can't undo the poverty, and I can't undo the cold rain. But I can give you back your canvas."
Beatrice closed her eyes, a sob tearing through her throat.
For five years, she had built a wall of absolute stone around her heart to keep herself and her children alive. She had pulled iron carts, she had endured insults from landlords, she had scrubbed floors until her knees bled, and she had never cried once.
But looking at that box of paints—looking at the quiet, unyielding devotion in Lorenzo’s eyes—the wall shattered completely.
She covered her face with her hands and wept.
Lorenzo didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and pulled her into his arms.
Beatrice didn't push him away. She collapsed against his broad chest, her fingers clutching the crisp fabric of his shirt as she let out five years of pent-up grief, exhaustion, and pain.
May you like
Lorenzo held her tight, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin on top of her dark auburn hair. He held her through the storm, swaying gently in the quiet living room as the rain began to fall once more over the city of Chicago.
"I’m sorry, Bea," he murmured into her hair over and over again, like a prayer. "I’m so sorry. I’ve got you now. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again."
