Chapter 5 - The Third-Floor Suite
The third-floor medical suite was larger than Elena’s entire apartment.
The walls were paneled in dark walnut, draped with heavy emerald velvet curtains that blocked out the gray Boston afternoon. A bank of monitors hummed quietly in the corner, tracking a steady, rhythmic green line that confirmed Adrian’s heart was cooperating once more.
Adrian sat propped up against a stack of goose-down pillows in the center of a massive mahogany bed. He wore a crisp white cotton shirt left unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the sharp, harsh lines of his throat and the faint bruise along his jaw.
Dante Russo stood near the window, arms crossed over his chest, watching the door as Elena walked in.
Sophia walked right beside her, holding the hem of Elena’s skirt with one hand and clutching her box of crayons with the other.
“You told her to stay outside,” Dante warned, his voice low.
“She doesn't stay anywhere when she’s curious,” Elena said, her voice tight, stepping defensively in front of her daughter. “Mr. Moretti... I apologize for this morning. It was an accident. She slipped past the linen closet while I was working. It won't happen again. We’ll pack our things and leave—”
“Stop talking, Elena,” a voice rasped from the bed.
Adrian Moretti spoke softly, but the command was absolute.
He hadn't raised his voice, yet the entire room instantly fell silent. He shifted slightly against the pillows, wincing as his bruised ribs protested the movement, before fixing his dark, piercing eyes on Sophia.
Sophia didn't flinch. She peeked around her mother’s skirt, her big brown eyes locking onto the mafia boss with fearless curiosity.
“You left your book,” Adrian said.
He reached out a long, lean hand to the bedside table. Lying flat against the dark wood was the cheap, dog-eared notebook Sophia had left on the carpet during the chaos of the morning.
Sophia’s face lit up. “My horse!”
“Sophia, hush,” Elena whispered, mortified, her hands gripping her daughter’s shoulders.
“It’s not a very good horse,” Adrian said, his voice completely devoid of humor, yet lacking any malice. He opened the cover with one hand, flipping through the pages of looping crayon circles and lopsided drawings. “The proportions are entirely incorrect. The legs are too short.”
Sophia scowled, stepping out from behind Elena’s skirt. “He’s running fast. That’s why his legs look short.”
Dante sucked in a sharp breath, waiting for the explosion. You didn't talk back to Adrian Moretti. You didn't correct him. You certainly didn't critique his art commentary.
Instead, a strange, fleeting twitch crossed the corner of Adrian’s mouth.
He closed the notebook and held it out toward the edge of the mattress.
“Come here,” Adrian commanded gently.
Elena’s heart stopped. “Mr. Moretti, please—she’s just a child, she doesn't understand—”
“I told her to come here, Mrs. Castillo, not you,” Adrian said, his dark eyes shifting from Elena to meet hers with a level of intensity that made her breath hitch. “Unless you think I’m going to bite her.”
Elena swallowed hard, her instincts screaming at her to drag her daughter out of the room, but the absolute stillness in the suite forced her feet to stay planted.
Sophia let go of Elena’s skirt.
With the same fearless, unbothered confidence she had shown toward the one-hundred-thirty-pound Cane Corso that morning, the five-year-old marched straight across the Persian rug until she stood right beside the massive mahogany bed.
Adrian looked down at her. Up close, his face was harsh, lined with exhaustion and the lingering shadow of a violent life, but his eyes were surprisingly clear.
“Why aren't you afraid of me?” Adrian asked, his voice low.
“Are you sick?” Sophia asked instead, tilting her head.
Adrian blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I had a bad morning.”
“My mommy says when you’re sick, you need soup and a really good blanket,” Sophia declared solemnly. She reached into the pocket of her little pink cardigan, pulled out a slightly crushed strawberry hard candy, and laid it carefully on the edge of the white duvet right next to Adrian’s hand. “You can have my sugar. It makes me feel better when I fall down.”
Dante turned his head toward the window, hiding a sudden, coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
Adrian stared down at the strawberry hard candy. Then slowly, deliberately, he picked it up between his thumb and forefinger.
“Thank you, Sophia,” Adrian said, his voice dropping into a tone so soft that Elena barely recognized it.
He looked up past the child, fixing his dark gaze directly on Elena where she stood frozen near the door.
“Mrs. Castillo,” Adrian said, the executive and the boss returning to his voice with chilling precision. “Your daughter has unauthorized access to my secure study, a complete disregard for perimeter security, and a total lack of professional boundaries.”
Elena braced herself, her stomach turning to lead.
“Yes, Mr. Moretti,” she whispered.
“Effective immediately,” Adrian continued, resting his hand over the strawberry candy on his blanket, “your salary is doubled, your hours are adjusted to daylight shifts only, and your daughter is no longer required to sit in a linen closet while you work.”
May you like
Elena stared at him, her jaw dropping. “What?”
“There’s an empty suite on the second floor next to the east library,” Adrian said smoothly, closing his eyes against a sudden wave of fatigue. “It has plenty of natural light. Perfect for drawing horses with short legs.”
