Chapter 4 - The House in Cobble Hill
The Moretti estate in Cobble Hill wasn't just a house; it was a fortress disguised as a historic Brooklyn brownstone.
When the sleek black town car pulled through the wrought-iron security gates and rolled up the private cobblestone driveway, Clara pressed her face against the tinted glass, taking in the towering brick facade, the manicured boxwood hedges, and the heavy security cameras mounted discreetly along the roofline.
Leo had fallen back into a deep, dreamless sleep during the twenty-minute drive from the restaurant, his head resting securely in Clara’s lap while Rico sat in the front passenger seat, barking crisp, cold orders into his phone regarding dock security and retaliatory strikes against the Falcone crew.
Now, as the car came to a smooth halt, Dante Russo appeared instantly outside the door, opening it with practiced efficiency.
Rico stepped out first, turning back to offer a hand. Clara hesitated for a fraction of a second before accepting it, sliding out of the vehicle with Leo still cradled carefully in her arms. The boy let out a soft sigh, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck, completely undisturbed by the change in scenery.
“Welcome to the fortress,” Dante muttered dryly, though there was a grudging respect in his eyes as he looked at Clara. “Nobody gets past the perimeter without iris scans and code words. Except apparently, waitresses with warm milk.”
“Watch it, Dante,” Rico warned, his voice completely devoid of humor, though a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested he appreciated the dark irony.
They walked up the wide stone steps and through a pair of heavy oak double doors into a sprawling foyer lit by a magnificent wrought-iron chandelier. The interior was stunning—exposed brick walls, hardwood floors polished to a mirror sheen, and massive oil paintings of Italian landscapes mixed seamlessly with modern smart-home panels.
Yet, despite its grandeur, the house felt cold. It was the chill of a home that had been preserved in amber, where every room held the ghost of a routine that had been violently interrupted six months ago.
“Maria!” Rico called out, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
Within seconds, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled back into a neat bun and wearing a traditional black-and-white housekeeper’s uniform hurried out from the hallway leading to the kitchens.
“Mr. Moretti, I—oh,” Maria stopped dead in her tracks as she saw Clara holding a sleeping Leo. The older woman’s hands flew to her mouth, and tears welled up instantly in her dark eyes. “Blessed Mother... is he...?”
“He’s asleep,” Rico said quietly, his posture softening slightly as he looked at his longtime housekeeper. “Maria, this is Clara Vance. She is joining our household permanently. Prepare the west guest suite next to the master wing.”
Maria blinked, her sharp eyes darting from Rico to Clara, assessing the situation with the veteran intuition of someone who had raised three generations of Morettis. She didn't ask questions. She simply bowed her head respectfully.
“Welcome to the house, Miss Vance. I’ll have the room ready immediately.”
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“Thank you, Maria. And please, just call me Clara,” she replied softly, adjusting Leo’s weight in her arms as the boy shifted uncomfortably in the strange environment.
Rico gestured toward the grand staircase at the end of the foyer. “I’ll show you up.”
