Chapter 2 - The Shadows on 82nd Street
By eight o'clock that evening, the rain had turned into a heavy, relentless downpour.
The third floor of the Moretti estate—usually reserved for high-ranking guests or family members—had been converted into a private suite for Lily and me. The room was warm, filled with soft lighting, velvet armchairs, and a king-sized bed where Lily was already fast asleep, clutching her gray rabbit.
I stood at the tall window, staring down through the rain at the street below.
The Upper East Side was usually quiet at night, save for the occasional taxi splashing through puddles. But tonight, I could see two dark SUVs parked at opposite ends of the block. Men in dark overcoats stood under the awnings, their hands resting inside their pockets.
A quiet knock echoed at the door.
"Come in," I said softly.
The door opened, and Dominic walked in. He had removed his vest and tie, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up to his forearms, revealing dark ink tracing up his wrists—tattoos from a life lived in the shadows before he inherited his father's empire. He carried a small glass of amber liquor in one hand and a thick folder in the other.
He set the folder on the small mahogany table near the armchair.
"How is your finger?" he asked, pointing to the neat white bandage wrapped around my hand.
"It's fine. Thank you," I replied, keeping my distance. "Mr. Moretti... what was in that blue car?"
Dominic sat down in the armchair, swirling the ice in his glass. "Marco pulled the traffic camera footage from the playground near Lily’s preschool. The car is a Ford Taurus with cold plates—registered to a shell corporation in Delaware that was dissolved six months ago."
My breath hitched. "Who does it belong to?"
Dominic didn't answer immediately. He looked toward the bed, where Lily was snoring softly under the heavy duvet.
"When you applied for this job four years ago," Dominic began slowly, "you told my house manager that your husband died in an industrial accident in New Jersey."
I froze. The room suddenly felt ten degrees colder. "That's what the police report said."
"The police report was written by a dirty precinct captain in Newark," Dominic said, opening the folder on the table. He pulled out a black-and-white mugshot and slid it across the wood. "Your ex-fiancé wasn't an industrial worker, Clara. His name is Vincent Rossi. He was an enforcer for the Falcone syndicate in South Jersey."
I closed my eyes as a wave of old, familiar terror crashed over me.
"I ran away when I was pregnant," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Vincent was violent. He told me if I ever left him, he would take the baby and make sure I never saw the light of day. When his car went over the bridge four years ago... I thought he was dead. The police found his jacket in the river."
"They found his jacket," Dominic corrected coldly, "because he threw it there. Vincent went into federal hiding to avoid an indictment. But six weeks ago, the federal case against Falcone collapsed. Vincent walk away a free man. And the first thing he did was hire a private investigator to find his daughter."
I collapsed into the chair opposite Dominic, burying my face in my trembling hands. "Oh God... Lily. He wants Lily."
"He wants leverage," Dominic said, his tone turning into pure steel. "Vincent knows his old syndicate wants him dead for ratting on their captain. He thinks if he secures a child, he can extortionate money from her mother—or worse, sell her protection to the higher-ups."
"I don't have money!" I cried out softly, mindful of Lily sleeping nearby. "I have three hundred dollars in my savings account!"
"He knows you work for me," Dominic said, leaning forward. His face was inches from mine, his dark eyes burning with an intense, protective flame that took my breath away. "He thinks you're my vulnerability, Clara."
I blinked, confused. "Your... vulnerability?"
"A man who has lived forty-one years without a wife or children is a hard target," Dominic said softly, his knuckles brushing lightly against the bandage on my hand. "A man who lets his housekeeper's daughter play in his foyer... is an easy target. Vincent thinks you are my weakness."
"Are... are we?" I stammed, my heart hammering against my ribs.
May you like
Dominic stood up, setting his empty glass on the table.
"He's about to find out," Dominic whispered, "that you are not my weakness. You are my responsibility. Pack your bags, Clara. Tomorrow morning, we're going to Pennsylvania to see your mother."
