Chapter 3 - The Fortress on the Shore
The black Maybach glided through the wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate on the southern edge of Brooklyn, right on the water.
It wasn't a house; it was a fortress. High limestone walls topped with discreet barbed wire, security cameras mounted every twenty paces, and men in sharp dark suits pacing the grounds with automatic rifles slung across their chests. The entire property smelled of salt water, manicured boxwoods, and impending violence.
Throughout the twenty-minute drive from the restaurant, Leo hadn't let go of my hand. He sat between Rico and me on the plush leather seats, his thumb in his mouth, his wide eyes watching every breath I took. Whenever Rico attempted to lean over and adjust Leo's jacket, the boy recoiled, burying himself against my side.
I felt the sting of Rico's silent gaze every time it happened. A father watching his only child pull away from him like he was a monster.
And maybe he was. But right now, in the dim light of the luxury sedan, Rico Moretti just looked like a man bleeding from an invisible wound.
“The east wing is Leo’s,” Rico announced as the driver opened the door. The night air was chilly, sweeping in off the bay. “Your suite connects directly to his through an adjoining door. Everything you need has already been ordered.”
“How did you manage that?” I asked, stepping onto the gravel with Leo cradled against my hip. “We’ve only been in transit for half an hour.”
“Money solves most problems in this world, Miss Vance,” Rico said, walking up the grand front steps. “The ones it can't solve, gunpowder does.”
“A very comforting parenting philosophy,” I muttered under my breath.
Rico stopped on the top step and looked back down at me. The porch lantern cast sharp shadows across his angular cheekbones. “You think I'm a monster.”
“I think you're a man who's used to people doing what they're told because they fear you,” I said, walking up the steps until I was eye level with his chest. “Children don't understand fear as respect, Mr. Moretti. They just understand danger. And right now, to him, you feel dangerous.”
Dante, standing behind us, cleared his throat nervously. “Boss, should I take the girl's coat?”
“Leave us, Dante,” Rico said, his eyes never leaving mine.
The heavy oak doors opened to reveal a cavernous foyer of black and white checkered marble, soaring ceilings, and a massive crystal chandelier that looked like frozen rain. But despite the staggering wealth, the mansion felt dead. There were no family photographs on the walls. No toys scattered across the floors. The air smelled of lemon oil, leather, and an eerie, sterile silence.
A woman in her late fifties, wearing a crisp black housekeeper’s dress, approached with hurried steps.
“Signor Moretti,” she said, bowing her head slightly. “The boy’s room is prepared.”
“Thank you, Maria. This is Clara,” Rico said. “Whatever she asks for, she gets. Without question.”
Maria looked at me with startled eyes, taking in my cheap sneakers and the boy clinging to my neck. Then she smiled warmly, a spark of genuine relief in her eyes. “Bless you, child. Come, let me show you to the nursery.”
The nursery was enormous, painted in muted shades of gray and navy—hardly the colors for a three-year-old child. A wooden crib stood in the corner, alongside an untouched train set and shelves filled with expensive, pristine toys still in their original boxes.
“He doesn't play with anything,” Maria whispered to me while Rico stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. “Since the mistress died... he just sits by the window. If we try to feed him, he throws plates. If we try to dress him, he screams until he passes out.”
“He feels like everything he loves disappears when he closes his eyes,” I said quietly.
I sat down on the edge of the large rug in the center of the room. I didn't try to put Leo into the bed. Instead, I gently sat him down on my lap and unlaced my sneakers, kicking them aside.
“Leo,” I whispered, touching his cheek. “Are you tired, little man?”
Leo nodded slowly, rubbing his eyes with his fists.
“We’re going to read a story. And then I’m going to sit right here by the door. I won't leave. Even if it gets dark, I’ll be right here. Understand?”
Leo stared at me, then pointed toward a shelf.
Rico stepped forward, reaching for the book on the top shelf. It was a dog-eared copy of *Goodnight Moon*. The spine was cracked, the cover faded.
“His mother used to read that to him,” Rico said, his voice dropping into a register so low and raw it made my throat ache. “Every night before the shooting.”
He handed the book to me. His fingers brushed against mine. A sudden, electric shock raced up my arm, so sharp that I almost dropped the book. Rico felt it too; his dark pupils dilated, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air vanish from my lungs.
“Read it to him,” Rico ordered softly, stepping back into the shadows of the doorway.
I sat on the rug with Leo nestled against my chest. Page by page, I read the simple words, pointing to the green room, the cow jumping over the moon, the bowl full of mush. With every page, Leo’s eyelids grew heavier. His small breathing slowed.
By the time I reached the final page—*Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere*—Leo was completely limp in my arms, sound asleep.
Carefully, moving with agonizing slowness, I lifted the boy and laid him into his bed. I pulled the blue blanket up to his chin, smoothed back his dark, unruly curls, and kissed his forehead.
He didn't wake up. He didn't scream.
When I turned around, Rico was still standing in the shadows by the door. He was watching me with an expression that terrified me more than any gun ever could.
It was the look of a starving man looking at bread.
May you like
“Come downstairs,” Rico said quietly. “We need to talk.”
***
