Chapter 2 - The House on the Hill
The ride to Bay Ridge was spent in absolute, heavy silence, broken only by the steady, rhythmic sound of rain against the tinted windows of the black Lincoln Navigator.
Clara sat in the middle of the plush leather bench seat. Leo was fast asleep in her lap, his small body heavy with the deep, exhausting sleep that only follows a massive emotional breakdown. His tiny hand was still tangled in her uniform fabric, resting over her ribcage like an anchor.
Rico sat in the captain’s chair beside her, staring out at the blurred neon lights of Brooklyn. He hadn't said a word since they left the restaurant. His large hands rested on his knees, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line. In the front passenger seat, a broad-shouldered man named Dominic kept his eyes glued to the side mirrors, his hand resting casually near his waist.
Clara knew who Rico Moretti was. Everyone in Brooklyn knew.
When the papers wrote about the Moretti family, they called them "shipping magnates" and "real estate developers." But on the streets of Astoria and Red Hook, people spoke his name in quiet, cautious tones. He was the young Don who had taken control of the waterfront after his father died, a man known for calculated discipline, terrifying silence, and total control over his territory.
Yet, looking at him now in the dim ambient lighting of the luxury SUV, Clara didn't see a criminal mastermind. She saw a widowed father who was completely out of his depth.
The SUV turned onto a private, tree-lined drive in Bay Ridge, winding up toward a grand stone mansion that overlooked the dark waters of the Narrows. Security gates swept open automatically, closing behind them with a heavy, final thud.
“Dominic will get your bags tomorrow if you need anything from your home,” Rico said, his voice quiet as the driver brought the vehicle to a smooth stop under the portico.
“I don't have many bags, Mr. Moretti,” Clara replied softly. “And I haven't agreed to stay.”
Rico turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers in the shadow of the cabin. “Look at my son, Miss Vance.”
Clara looked down at Leo. The little boy’s face was smooth, peaceful, his breathing deep and even for the first time all evening.
“If you try to leave right now, he will wake up,” Rico said, his voice dropping into a low, compelling tone. “He will scream until his lungs bleed. I have spent three months watching him break himself apart. I won't let him do it again tonight. Name your price. Five hundred a night. A thousand. Whatever you make at that restaurant in a month, I will pay you for three hours of your time.”
Clara felt a sharp pang in her heart. “It isn't about the money, Mr. Moretti.”
“Then what is it about?”
“It’s about the fact that you think money fixes everything,” she said gently. “He doesn't need a thousand-dollar-a-night nanny. He needs peace.”
Rico stared at her, caught entirely off guard by her candor. No one spoke to him like that. No one had spoken to him like that in ten years.
Before he could answer, the rear door was opened by an older woman in a neat grey dress—Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper. Her eyes widened when she saw Clara holding the sleeping boy.
“Mercy,” Mrs. Gable whispered. “He’s asleep?”
“We’re bringing him inside,” Rico said, stepping out of the car and holding his hand out to help Clara down.
They walked through the massive front doors into a grand foyer lined with dark oak paneling and crystal sconces. The house was magnificent, but it felt cold—like a museum where no one was allowed to touch the art. There were no toys on the rug, no bright drawings pinned to the refrigerator, no signs of life.
Clara carried Leo up the broad marble staircase, following Rico down a long carpeted hallway into a nursery. The room was huge, filled with expensive wooden cribs, custom stuffed animals, and pristine furniture, but it felt empty.
Gently, Clara laid Leo down on the mattress. The moment she tried to pull away, his small fingers tightened on her vest, his brow furrowing in distress.
“Shh... I’m here,” Clara whispered, crouching beside the crib. She gently unbuttoned her server’s vest, slipping out of it and leaving it tucked against his side so he could feel her warmth and scent. She smoothed his hair, singing softly under her breath—a quiet, old lullaby her grandmother had sung to her when she was small.
Within two minutes, Leo relaxed completely, his thumb slipping into his mouth.
May you like
Clara stood up slowly, her shoulders aching, clad now in only her thin white undershirt and black work pants. She turned around to find Rico standing in the doorway, watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.
“Come downstairs,” Rico said softly. “We need to talk.”
