Chapter 4 - Blood and Lullabies
The study was lined floor-to-ceiling with dark mahogany bookshelves, smelling heavily of aged Scotch and old paper. Behind a massive antique desk, Rico poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. He didn't offer me one.
Instead, he threw a thick manila folder onto the leather blotter between us.
“Clara Vance,” he read from memory, leaning back in his leather chair. “Born in Chicago. Mother died of breast cancer when you were twelve. Father abandoned the family six months later. You raised your little brother, Toby, through high school while working three part-time jobs. Dean's list at Hunter College before you had to drop out due to Toby’s medical bills.”
My jaw tightened. “You ran a background check on me in forty minutes?”
“I run a billion-dollar empire surrounded by rivals who would kill my son just to see me flinch,” Rico replied coldly. “I knew your dental records before you stepped through my front gates.”
“Then you know I’m not a threat to you.”
“You are the biggest threat that has entered this house in six months,” Rico snapped, leaning forward. His eyes burned with an icy fire. “Because my son looks at you and sees a reason to live, Miss Vance. And that makes you a weakness. My weakness.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms. “You really are incapable of just saying ‘thank you,’ aren't you?”
Rico paused, the tumbler halfway to his lips. He let out a low, dark chuckle. “People who work for me don't demand gratitude, Clara. They take their money and pray I don't notice their mistakes.”
“Then fire me,” I challenged, taking a step toward the desk. “Send me back to the diner. Put my brother back in our crumbling tenement apartment with the broken radiator. But do it right now, before that little boy wakes up tomorrow morning expecting me to be there.”
Silence hung in the study like a guillotine.
Rico set his glass down. He stood up, towering over the desk, and walked around it until he was standing directly in front of me. The air between us crackled with heat and danger.
“You aren't going anywhere,” he said, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety rasp that sent shivers straight down my spine. “You’re staying right here. Under my roof. Under my protection.”
“And under your thumb?”
“Under my sight,” he corrected, leaning down so his lips were mere inches from my ear. “Because if anyone tries to hurt you, Clara, they hurt my son. And anyone who touches what is mine burns in hell.”
The possessiveness in his voice was overwhelming, terrifying, and intoxicating all at once. Before I could reply, the shrill wail of a child’s scream tore through the mansion’s intercom system.
Leo.
I didn't wait for permission. I turned on my heel and bolted through the mahogany doors, sprinting down the grand hallway and up the sweeping staircase. Rico was right behind me, his heavy footsteps echoing against the marble.
I burst into the nursery.
Leo was thrashing in his bed, tangled in the sheets, his face crimson, his fists punching the air wildly. “No! Bang! No bang!” he shrieked, tears streaming down his face.
“A night terror,” I gasped, rushing to the side of the bed.
“Step aside, let me hold him,” Rico commanded, reaching for the boy.
“No! Don't touch him when he’s in the middle of it!” I yelled, swatting Rico’s massive hand away. Dante, who had appeared at the bedroom door, drew a sharp breath in horror at my audacity, but Rico stood frozen.
I climbed into the bed beside the screaming toddler. I wrapped my arms around him gently, not pinning him down, but creating a soft, warm cage. I pressed his head against my chest, right over my heartbeat.
“I’m here, Leo,” I whispered, rocking him back and forth. “It was just a dream, baby. Just a dream. You’re safe. Nobody is shooting. Nobody is hurting you.”
*“Mamma... bang... red...”* Leo gasped, his little body trembling violently.
I looked up at Rico. He was standing at the foot of the bed, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides. The raw agony etched into his face was devastating.
“The car was ambushed at a red light in Queens,” Rico whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “Six months ago. Lucien Marcone’s men. Elena shielded Leo with her body. She took seven bullets. Leo was covered in her blood when I pulled him from the wreckage.”
Tears welled in my eyes. The horror of that image—a two-and-a-half-year-old child trapped in the dark with his dying mother—made my stomach heave.
I held Leo tighter. I began to hum.
It was an old Italian melody my own grandmother had sung to me when I was little—a lullaby about the stars guarding the sea. My voice was quiet, shaking at first, but steadying as the rhythm took over.
Leo’s frantic thrashing began to subside. His tiny fingers grabbed the fabric of my cotton shirt. His ragged sobs turned into soft hiccups.
Ten minutes later, the boy was breathing evenly again, fast asleep against my chest.
I looked up. Rico hadn't moved an inch. But the cold, unfeeling mafia Don was gone. In his place stood a broken man, his dark eyes glistening with unshed tears in the dim light of the nightlight.
“How do you do that?” he asked, his voice barely a breath.
“I don't treat him like a piece of glass that’s already broken,” I whispered, brushing a tear from Leo’s cheek. “I treat him like a boy who is trying to put himself back together.”
Rico walked slowly around the bed. He stopped right beside me. For a moment, I thought he was going to say something, or perhaps scold me again.
Instead, he reached down. His calloused, scar-crested thumb gently wiped away a stray tear from my own cheek.
His touch was warm. Impossibly gentle for a man whose hands were stained with so much blood.
“Sleep here tonight,” Rico murmured, his dark eyes boring into mine. “Both of you.”
He turned and walked toward the door. Just before he switched off the main lamp, he paused, looking over his shoulder.
May you like
“Thank you, Clara.”
***
