Chapter 3 - Into the Lion's Den
The convoy of three black armored Cadillacs cut through the rainy Brooklyn streets like silent predators.
Inside the middle vehicle, Clara sat wrapped in a heavy cashmere blanket that Rico had pulled from his own seat. Leo was dead to the world, his small thumb hooked into the hem of Clara's faded cotton apron, refusing to let go even in his sleep.
Rico sat across from her, his long legs crossed, watching her every breath with hawk-like precision.
"You're terrified," Rico noted, his deep voice vibrating through the quiet cabin. "Yet you didn't hesitate to walk up to my table."
"I was terrified of the look in his eyes, Mr. Moretti," Clara replied, keeping her gaze fixed on the passing city lights. "A child shouldn't look like he's fighting a war all by himself."
"His mother was murdered six months ago," Rico said bluntly. He didn't sugarcoat reality. "A hitman from the Irish mob aimed for my head. The bullet missed. It caught Elena in the chest while she was holding him in the backseat of our car."
Clara felt a sickening knot tie itself in her stomach. She looked down at the sleeping boy, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces. "He remembers."
"He remembers the sound," Rico said softly, his icy eyes darkening with an ancient, unforgiving pain. "He remembers the glass shattering. He remembers her blood on his hands. Since that night, he hasn't let anyone touch him without fighting like a trapped animal."
"And you?" Clara asked quietly, pushing past her own fear. "How do you remember it?"
Rico leaned forward, the shadows of the tinted windows falling over his sharp cheekbones. "I remember it by making sure every person who planned it, funded it, and executed it stopped breathing. The last one died three weeks ago."
The car came to a smooth stop outside a sprawling estate in Bay Ridge. High wrought-iron gates swung open automatically, revealing a stone fortress surrounded by manicured lawns and guarded by men in dark suits with submachine guns slung beneath their coats.
Clara swallowed hard. She had escaped one cage in her life, only to walk directly into the golden lair of the most dangerous predator in New York.
Dante opened the door, holding an umbrella over them. Rico reached down to take his son, but the moment his big hands brushed against Leo, the boy let out a soft, whimpering cry, his small fingers tightening frantically on Clara's shirt.
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"It's okay, little bear," Clara whispered, scooping the boy into her arms. She stood up, balancing his weight against her hip. "I'm right here."
Rico watched the scene, a strange, unreadable storm brewing in his dark eyes. He gestured toward the grand front doors. "Welcome to the Moretti house, Clara. Your life as a waitress ended twenty minutes ago."
