Chapter 3 - The Contract
The library smelled of cedar, leather, and single-malt scotch.
Rico poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler, turned, and held it out to Clara. She hesitated, then took it, setting it down on the heavy oak desk between them without taking a sip.
“My wife died fourteen months ago,” Rico said abruptly, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the dark ocean. He stood with his back to her, his hands tucked into his pockets. “Ovarian cancer. It was fast. Three months from diagnosis to the funeral.”
Clara listened quietly, sitting on the edge of the leather armchair.
“Sophia was the heart of this house,” Rico continued, his voice tight. “When she died, the house went quiet. I tried to compensate. I bought him every toy in FAO Schwarz. I hired the best nurses, the best tutors, the best child behavioral specialists from Manhattan. Leo kicked them all out. He threw chairs. He bit them. He stopped eating anything that wasn't milk or dry bread.”
“He was grieving,” Clara said softly. “And everyone around him was acting like he was a problem to be fixed, instead of a little boy who lost his entire world.”
Rico turned around slowly. The harsh overhead light caught the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the deep shadows of exhaustion beneath his eyes.
“My life is complicated, Miss Vance,” Rico said, taking a sip of his scotch. “I have enemies. I have responsibilities that keep me up until four in the morning. I cannot be a soft man. If I am soft, people die. My people, my family.”
“I’m not asking you to be soft, Mr. Moretti,” Clara said, standing up. “I’m telling you that your son doesn't care about your empire. He just wants to know that someone is going to stay.”
Rico walked over to his desk and pulled out a clean sheet of paper and a Montblanc pen.
“I want to hire you,” Rico said firmly. “Live-in. Full access to the estate. Ten thousand dollars a month, starting tonight. You will have your own private suite on the second floor. Your only job is Leo.”
Clara’s breath hitched. Ten thousand dollars a month. That was more money than she made in a year at the restaurant. It would pay off her back rent, clear her student loans, buy her a reliable car... it would change her life completely.
“And what about my life?” Clara asked, fighting to keep her voice steady. “My job? My apartment?”
“I will buy out your lease tomorrow,” Rico stated flatly. “I will pay off whatever debts you have. You won't ever have to set foot in Il Stellino again.”
Clara looked at him, searching his fierce, uncompromising face. “And if I say no?”
Rico was quiet for a long moment. He looked down at the paper, then back at her.
“If you say no,” Rico said softly, “I will double the offer. And then I will ask you again. Because tonight is the first time in fourteen months my son slept without crying himself sick, and I will tear Brooklyn apart before I let him lose that again.”
Clara felt a shiver run down her spine—not of fear, but of something far more dangerous. Determination.
She looked toward the door, thinking of the quiet, sleeping boy upstairs who had held onto her vest as if she were the only real thing in a world full of ghosts.
She picked up the Montblanc pen.
“Ten thousand a month,” Clara said, her chin lifted. “And one condition.”
Rico raised an eyebrow. “Name it.”
“You don't bring guns to the dinner table when your son is sitting there,” Clara said, her voice ringing clear and strong in the quiet library. “And you sit down and eat dinner with him every single night you are in this house. No phones. No bodyguards. Just his father.”
Rico stared at her, a strange, dark glimmer rising in his ice-blue eyes—the first spark of genuine intrigue she had seen in them all night.
May you like
“Done,” Rico murmured.
Clara signed her name at the bottom of the page.
