Chapter 5 - The West Wing
The west guest suite was larger than Clara’s entire Brooklyn apartment.
It featured a king-sized bed draped in crisp white Egyptian cotton, a private en-suite marble bathroom with a deep soaking tub, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a private courtyard garden. Connected directly to the suite through a double set of soundproofed white doors was Leo’s bedroom—a sprawling, beautifully decorated space filled with custom wooden toys, a race-car bed, and shelves packed with children’s books. Yet, the air in Leo’s room was heavy with a subtle, tragic sterility; none of the toys looked like they had been played with in months.
Clara gently laid Leo down on his bed, carefully removing his tiny shoes and pulling a thick cashmere quilt up to his chin. The boy didn't wake up, his breathing remaining steady and calm.
Rico stood quietly in the doorway, watching them. The harsh, aggressive energy he had projected while managing his syndicate affairs on the phone earlier had completely evaporated, leaving behind a profound, almost fragile exhaustion.
“He hasn’t slept in his own room since the night Elena died,” Rico murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “He sleeps on a pallet on the floor of my walk-in closet. He says the shadows in here are too loud.”
Clara turned around, facing him across the child’s room. The soft lamplight cast long, warm shadows across the expensive hardwood floor.
“Children personify grief,” Clara said softly, leaning against the edge of the dresser. “To him, the house changed when his mother didn't come back. The shadows aren't loud, Mr. Moretti—they’re empty. He needs to know that someone is going to stay in the light with him.”
Rico walked slowly into the room, stopping just a few feet away from her. Up close, without the barrier of the restaurant dining room or the staff hierarchy, the raw humanity between them was undeniable.
“You’re twenty-four years old,” Rico noted, his dark eyes searching her face with intense curiosity. “You should be in college, or out with friends, or building a career. Instead, you were working a double shift at a crowded restaurant to pay off family debts.”
“Life doesn't always wait for you to grow up, Mr. Moretti,” Clara replied, holding his gaze steadily. “When my father walked out, my mother broke down. I had to raise my brother. You learn how to carry things because you don't have a choice.”
Rico’s jaw tightened. A strange, unreadable emotion crossed his features—something dangerously close to protective anger, not directed at her, but at the harshness of the world that had forced a young girl to grow up too fast.
“You don't have to carry anything alone anymore, Clara,” Rico said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant timbre that made the air between them feel suddenly charged. “In this house, your debts are paid. Your family is protected. And your only job is keeping my son breathing.”
Before Clara could formulate a response, a sharp, urgent buzz echoed from the hallway outside.
May you like
Rico’s hand dropped instinctively to the concealed holster beneath his suit jacket. His phone vibrated loudly on the table by the door. He snatched it up, glanced at the encrypted screen, and his face instantly turned to stone.
“Boss,” Dante’s voice crackled over the secure speakerphone function. “We have movement at the north perimeter gate. A black Escalade just pulled up. It’s Vincent Falcone himself. And he brought a crew.”
