Chapter 5 - The Brooklyn Sun
Within three weeks, the fortress on the shore began to change.
It started with small things. I refused to let the security team carry assault rifles inside the residential wing; Rico gritted his teeth, scowled like a storm cloud, but ultimately ordered Dante to keep long guns restricted to the perimeter guards.
Next was the nursery. I had Maria help me bring in bright yellow rugs, low wooden bookshelves filled with picture books, and plastic bins overflowing with wooden blocks and paints.
By the fourth week, Leo was eating three meals a day. He was still quiet, preferring to whisper his words only into my ear, but the screaming tantrums had vanished completely.
“He needs to go outside,” I announced one bright Tuesday morning at the breakfast table.
Rico didn't look up from his financial papers and black espresso. “He plays in the courtyard.”
“The courtyard is surrounded by eight-foot walls and four snipers on the roof,” I pointed out, buttering a slice of whole-wheat toast for Leo. “He’s three years old, Rico. He needs grass under his feet. He needs to see a duck pond. He needs to exist in the real world for more than ten minutes.”
Rico finally set his coffee cup down with a sharp *clack*. His dark eyes locked onto mine. Across the table, Leo paused with a blueberry halfway to his mouth, sensing the tension.
“The real world is where my enemies live, Clara,” Rico said coldly. “Every lieutenant in the Marcone syndicate would cut Leo’s throat just to watch me bleed. He stays inside the compound.”
“Then bring your men,” I countered, leaning forward over the table. “Surround the entire park with your guards. Wear plain clothes. But don't punish this child for your war. If you lock him in a cage to protect him, he will grow up believing the cage is all he deserves.”
Rico stared at me. Nobody spoke to him like this. Dante, standing by the French doors, looked like he was about to faint from secondhand dread.
Rico’s gaze drifted from me to Leo. The little boy was staring at his father with wide, pleading eyes.
“Park?” Leo whispered softly, testing the word. “Duck?”
Rico’s throat moved as he swallowed hard.
“Brooklyn Botanic Garden,” Rico said abruptly, standing up and buttoning his jacket. “We rent out the entire Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden for two hours. Plainclothes detail. If a single civilian gets within twenty yards of either of you, we leave immediately.”
My face broke into an uncontrollable, radiant smile. “Thank you!”
Rico stopped. He stared at my smile for three long seconds, his expression unreadable, before looking away sharply. “Dante. Mobilize teams four and six. We move in thirty minutes.”
***
The sun over Brooklyn was warm, filtering through the weeping willows and blooming cherry trees of the botanical garden. For two hours, the entire sanctuary belonged to us.
Leo squealed with pure, unfiltered joy—a sound that Maria had told me hadn't been heard in that house since the day his mother died. He ran down the wooden bridges, pointing at the bright orange koi fish swimming beneath the jade-green water.
“Fish! Clara, big fish!” Leo laughed, tugging on my hand.
I knelt beside him, laughing with him, pointing out the ripples in the water.
A few paces behind us, walking along the gravel path with his hands in his pockets, was Ricardo Moretti. He had left his usual tailored suit at home, wearing dark jeans, a black cashmere sweater, and dark sunglasses.
He didn't look like a mob boss. He looked like a father.
Suddenly, Leo stumbled over a tree root, tumbling onto the soft grass.
Instinctively, both Rico and I rushed forward. Rico reached him first, dropping to one knee with lightning speed.
“Leo,” Rico said, his voice laced with an anxiety he could never hide around his son. “Are you hurt?”
Leo sniffled, looking down at his grass-stained knee. For a second, his lower lip quivered, threatening tears.
Then Rico did something that left me breathless.
He didn't bark an order. He didn't pull away.
He gently lifted his son, sat him on his knee, and brushed the dirt from the toddler's jeans. Then he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Leo’s scrape.
“You're alright, little warrior,” Rico whispered gently. “You’re Moretti. We don't break.”
Leo stared at his father, his big brown eyes blinking away the tears. Then, the little boy threw his tiny arms around Rico’s neck, hugging him tight.
Rico froze completely.
For six months, his son had bitten, scratched, and screamed whenever Rico came near him. Now, Leo was burying his face into Rico’s shoulder.
Slowly, almost reverently, Rico’s massive, scarred arms wrapped around his son’s tiny back. He closed his eyes, his broad shoulders trembling with a wave of emotion so profound it made my own chest ache.
When Rico opened his eyes, he looked up at me.
Through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, a single tear escaped down his sharp cheekbone.
“You did this,” Rico whispered to me over Leo’s head.
“No,” I smiled, stepping closer to them on the sunlit path. “You did. You just needed to let him see his father, Rico. Not the boss.”
Rico stood up, carrying Leo effortlessly in one arm. With his free hand, he reached out and caught my chin between his warm fingers. He tilted my face upward, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip.
The air around us grew impossibly heavy. The garden vanished. The bodyguards standing twenty yards away vanished. There was only Rico, his thumb on my skin, and the raw, smoldering heat in his dark eyes.
“You’re an extraordinary woman, Clara Vance,” he said softly, his voice a low, possessive hum. “And I am beginning to realize that letting you into my home was the most dangerous thing I have ever done.”
Before I could answer, Dante’s voice crackled through Rico’s earpiece.
Rico’s expression hardened instantly. The warmth evaporated like smoke.
“What is it?” Rico asked into his collar mic.
He listened for three seconds, his jaw setting like concrete.
May you like
“Marcone’s crew just crossed into Crown Heights,” Rico said, his tone chillingly flat. “They know we’re outside the compound. Move the car now. We’re going to war.”
***
