Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Estate
By Friday evening, two days before the scheduled shipping run at Pier Twelve, a heavy autumn gale swept across Long Island. Winds howled through the high oak trees surrounding the Moretti estate, driving sheets of rain against the stone facades.
Inside the grand dining room, Ricardo Moretti sat at the head of the long oak table, sipping a dark Barolo wine.
Standing near the sideboard, her hands folded neatly over her white apron, was Elena.
Ricardo set his glass down, looking up at her with a calm, polite smile. “Elena, the roast calf is excellent tonight. Pass my compliments to the chef.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ricardo,” Elena murmured, bowing her head slightly.
“Tell me,” Ricardo said casually, picking up his linen napkin. “How is my nephew doing in the rehab room? I heard he had a rather... difficult session with Mr. Miller on Wednesday.”
Elena kept her face completely devoid of emotion. “Mr. Moretti spends most of his time in his study now, sir. He does not speak much to the staff.”
“And his appetite?”
“He barely touches his trays, sir.”
Ricardo smiled—a slow, satisfied expression that didn't reach his cold gray eyes. “Grief is a heavy burden for a young man who used to run this city. It takes time for the mind to accept when the body has failed.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. He set it on the table.
“You have been very attentive, Elena,” Ricardo said smoothly. “Taking care of the study, keeping the little girl quiet. Here is a small bonus for your hard work.”
Elena looked at the thick envelope. She knew what was inside—a bribe to keep her mouth shut about who came and went from the estate.
“Thank you, Mr. Ricardo,” Elena whispered, taking the envelope and tucking it into her apron pocket.
“Has he signed the corporate proxy documents on his desk yet?” Ricardo asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“I... I saw papers on his desk this afternoon, sir,” Elena lied seamlessly, just as Dominic had instructed her. “He was staring at them before he went to sleep. I believe he intends to sign them before the courier arrives on Saturday morning.”
Ricardo’s posture relaxed completely. He picked up his wine glass again, taking a long, triumphant drink. “Good. Very good.”
Ten minutes later, Elena slipped out of the dining room and walked quickly down the service corridor to the ground-floor study.
She tapped three times on the oak door.
“Come in,” Dominic’s voice called out.
Elena entered, locking the door behind her.
Dominic was sitting near the fireplace, but he wasn't in his wheelchair.
He was sitting on a low leather workout bench, holding a heavy iron exercise bar across his chest. Sweat soaked his black t-shirt, his broad shoulders flexing as he pressed the weight above his head—ten, twelve, fifteen times.
Beside the bench, sitting on a plush wool rug, was Leo. She was quietly building a tower out of wooden blocks, completely unfazed by the heavy iron weights or the intense tension in the room.
Dominic lowered the bar onto the rack with a metallic CLANG. He wiped his face with a towel and turned to look at Elena.
“Did he take the bait?” Dominic asked.
“Yes,” Elena said, stepping closer. “He believes you are defeated. He believes you will sign the proxy papers tonight.”
Dominic nodded, his dark eyes gleaming with a lethal clarity.
Over the last forty-eight hours, with Elena watching the doors and keeping Ricardo’s attention elsewhere, Dominic had abandoned the clinical, passive therapy prescribed by the hospital doctors.
He had spent hours on the floor, using his arms to drag his body, doing upper-body conditioning, and forcing his core muscles to stabilize. And this afternoon, during an intense, painful session while holding onto the heavy oak desk, a faint, tiny prickle of heat had returned to the big toe of his right foot.
The spinal cord injury wasn't complete. The nerve pathways were damaged, not severed.
The doctors had been wrong. But Dominic had let them believe it. He had let the entire world believe he was a helpless invalid sitting in a dark room, waiting for his uncle to take his empire.
“The shipment arrives at Pier Twelve at midnight tomorrow,” Dominic said, looking at the black leather ledger sitting on his lap. “Ricardo has arranged for ten of his loyal enforcers to escort the containers from the dock directly to a Bellandi warehouse in Queens.”
“What are you going to do, Mr. Moretti?” Elena asked, her voice filled with quiet anxiety.
Dominic looked at her, then at little Leo, who was holding up a blue wooden block to show him.
“I am going to Pier Twelve,” Dominic said.
Elena gasped. “In your condition? Sir, if Ricardo’s men see you there—”
“They won't see a crippled man in a wheelchair, Elena,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on her arms stand up. “They are going to see the Don.”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a key ring with three brass keys, handing it to Elena.
“Tomorrow night at ten o'clock,” Dominic commanded, “you and Leo take the silver SUV parked in the rear garage. Use these keys to unlock the safe house in Montauk. Stay there until I call you.”
Elena looked at the keys, then looked Dominic straight in the eye. She didn't take them.
“No,” Elena said firmly.
Dominic frowned. “What?”
“I’m not running away to Montauk, Mr. Moretti,” Elena said, her hazel eyes burning with sudden, unyielding strength. “Two years ago, when the Bellandis took over the hotel group, I ran away. I hid in small towns, working for minimum wage, terrified that someone would find us. I am tired of running.”
She stepped closer to his bench, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
“I know this house. I know where Ricardo keeps his private security codes. I know how his driver operates. You need someone inside this estate tomorrow night to make sure Ricardo doesn't realize you’ve left the property until it’s too late.”
Dominic stared at her.
For months, he had been surrounded by men who claimed to be loyal—lieutenants who took his money, partners who drank his wine, a fiancée who wore his three-carat diamond. And when he fell, every single one of them had scattered like dust in the wind.
And now, a twenty-five-year-old maid holding a three-year-old child was standing in his study, offering to face a mafia bloodbath for him.
“Why are you doing this, Elena?” Dominic asked softly.
May you like
Elena looked down at Leo, who had crawled over and was leaning her head against Dominic’s knee.
“Because,” Elena whispered, tears shining in her eyes, “you listened to my daughter when the rest of the world treated her like she was invisible. And because you are a good man, Dominic Moretti. Even if you try very hard to pretend you aren't.”
