Chapter 2 - The Unseen Ledger
The rain had cleared by Wednesday morning, leaving the Long Island estate wrapped in a cold, pale fog that rolled off the Atlantic Ocean.
Dominic sat in the rehabilitation room on the ground floor of the east wing. The room had been transformed from a sunny conservatory into a sterile medical space filled with parallel bars, leather treatment tables, rubber exercise bands, and stainless-steel hydrotherapy tanks.
His physical therapist, a tall, efficient man named Miller who spoke in clinical, unsentimental sentences, was adjusting the leather straps around Dominic’s thighs.
“We’re going to attempt a weight-bearing transfer today, Mr. Moretti,” Miller said, checking the tension on the straps. “I need you to use your upper body strength to pull yourself onto the table, while I support your hips.”
Dominic didn't answer. He gripped the parallel bars with his broad, calloused hands. His shoulders were muscular, honed by years of boxing and tactical training, but as he pulled his body upward, his lower half hung uselessly beneath him like dead timber.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. His jaw clamped tight.
He pulled. His muscles strained.
And then his hand slipped on the smooth stainless steel.
Dominic fell.
He didn't hit the floor hard—Miller caught his torso before he crashed—but his legs crumpled beneath him, twisting awkwardly on the blue rubber matting.
Dominic lay on his side on the cold mat, breathing heavily, his chest heaving with a dark, humiliating fury.
“It's fine, Mr. Moretti,” Miller said calmly, reaching down to help him up. “It's just a slip. Let's try again—”
“Get out,” Dominic growled, his face pressed against the mat.
“Sir, consistency is critical for nerve recovery—”
“I said get out!” Dominic roared, his voice echoing off the glass walls of the conservatory.
Miller paused, sighed professionally, and picked up his clipboard. “I will return at two o'clock for your afternoon session.” He walked out, closing the glass door behind him.
Dominic lay alone on the floor.
He could have used his arms to push himself up onto his knees, to drag his body back to the wheelchair parked three feet away. But the sheer weight of his own helplessness pinned him to the mat. For ten minutes, he didn't move. He stared at the blue rubber floor, feeling the quiet, hollow silence of a house that had moved on without him.
A soft giggle broke the silence.
Dominic turned his head slightly.
Leo was sitting on the floor three feet away, right beside his wheelchair.
She had crawled through the open side door from the garden patio. She had a small plastic container filled with red clay in her lap, and her hands were covered in bright red smears.
She looked at Dominic lying on the floor, then looked at the parallel bars, and then crawled over on her hands and knees until she was lying flat on her stomach right beside him.
“What are you doing?” Dominic muttered, his voice raspy.
“I’m laying down too,” Leo said happily, resting her chin on her dirty hands.
“This isn't a game.”
“I know. It’s clay.” She held up a small, lumpy ball of red clay. “I made a fish. But it broke.”
Dominic stared at her. “Why aren't you afraid of me?”
“Mommy says big men are only scary when they shout,” Leo said, turning her head so her ear rested against the rubber mat. “You’re not shouting now. You’re just lying down.”
Dominic let out a low, rough breath that sounded almost like a laugh—the first real sound he had made in eleven weeks.
He shifted his weight, digging his elbows into the mat, and slowly, painstakingly pulled his upper body into a sitting position. He dragged his dead legs out in front of him, leaning his back against the base of the parallel bars.
Leo sat up too, mimicking his posture, crossing her tiny legs and smiling proudly.
“See?” she said. “We sat up.”
At that moment, Elena appeared at the open glass door, carrying a basket of clean towels. When she saw her daughter sitting on the rehab floor beside the crippled mob boss, she dropped the basket, her hands flying to her mouth.
“Leo!” Elena gasped, rushing forward. “I am so sorry, Mr. Moretti—I was just changing the linens in the guest suite—”
“Elena,” Dominic interrupted, his voice calm, stopping her in her tracks. “It’s fine.”
Elena stood frozen, looking between Dominic sitting on the floor and her daughter, who was showing him the lumpy clay fish.
Dominic looked up at Elena.
Now, in the clear morning light of the conservatory, he noticed things he had missed before.
Elena’s sleeves were rolled up, revealing faint, silver surgical scars on her wrists—scars that looked remarkably similar to defensive knife wounds. Her posture was cautious, hyper-vigilant, her eyes constantly scanning the room’s exits.
She wasn't just a maid who needed a paycheck. She was a woman who was running from something.
“Where did you work before you came to my estate, Elena?” Dominic asked quietly.
Elena’s posture went rigid. “In... in Manhattan, sir. Private housekeeping for a hotel group.”
“Which hotel group?”
“The Bellandi Group,” she whispered, her eyes dropping to the floor.
Dominic’s dark eyes narrowed.
The Bellandi family was the primary rival of the Moretti organization in New York. They controlled the concrete distribution and the gambling parlors along the East River. Three years ago, their underboss, Marco Bellandi, had died in a turf war—a war that Dominic had negotiated an end to.
“You worked for the Bellandis?” Dominic asked, his tone dropping into a quiet, dangerous register.
“I was just a cleaner, Mr. Moretti,” Elena said quickly, her voice trembling with raw sincerity. “I cleaned the executive suites on the top floor of the Bellandi Tower. I left two years ago... right after Marco died. I didn't have anywhere else to go.”
Dominic studied her face for a long, intense moment. He saw no deceit, only the deep, instinctual terror of a mother trying to protect her child.
“Help me into the chair,” Dominic said softly.
Elena hesitated for a split second, then stepped forward. She didn't treat him like fragile glass. She didn't look at his legs with pity. She braced her feet, offered her strong, capable hands, and supported his upper torso as Dominic used his arms to lift himself back into the graphite wheelchair.
When he was settled, he looked at her.
“Go to my study, Elena,” Dominic commanded gently. “Under the third shelf on the left wall, there is a small oak cabinet. Open it. Inside, you’ll find a black leather notebook.”
May you like
Elena blinked. “Sir?”
“Bring it to me,” Dominic said. “And don't let my uncle see you carry it.”
