Chapter 2 - THE MORNING AFTER
I woke up to the sound of screaming.
It wasn't the sound of gunfire, nor was it the alarm system. It was the sharp, hysterical panic of a woman who thought her world had just ended.
"Lily! Oh my God, Lily!"
My eyes snapped open. Sunlight was pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my master suite. The digital clock on the nightstand read 8:42 a.m.
Eight. Forty. Two.
I sat up so fast the silk sheets whipped around my waist. Seven straight hours of unbroken, dreamless sleep. My head felt clear. The violent, persistent ache behind my eyes was gone. My body felt... rested. It was a sensation so unfamiliar that for a second, I felt disoriented, almost sick with shock.
In the doorway of my bedroom stood Sophia Carter.
She was clutching a heavy brass candlestick she had clearly grabbed from the hallway console table, her face chalk-white, her dark hair wild, her apron crooked. Standing behind her was my security chief, Frank, looking like he was five seconds away from being executed by a firing squad.
"Mr. Moretti!" Sophia gasped, her voice cracking as she saw her daughter sitting up in the middle of my massive bed, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. "I... I swear to God, I didn't know she left the cottage! I woke up and her bed was empty! I'm so sorry, sir! Please, don't hurt her!"
She dropped the candlestick onto the expensive rug, rushing forward to grab Lily from the bed, pulling the child into her arms so tightly the little girl let out a small whine.
"Mama, you're squishing Barnaby," Lily protested softly.
Sophia fell to her knees beside my bed, holding Lily against her chest, her shoulders shaking with terrified, breathless sobs. She looked up at me, her brown eyes wide with a deep, existential terror.
She thought I was going to kill them. Or worse.
I looked from Sophia to Frank, who was sweating profusely in the doorway, his hand hovering near his shoulder holster.
"Frank," I said, my voice cold, calm, and entirely different from the usual exhausted growl I possessed. "Get out."
"Mr. Moretti, I can explain—"
"You let a three-year-old wander past two security checkpoints," I interrupted flatly. "You are relieved of duty. Leave your badge, your weapon, and your clearance card with my deputy on the main floor. You have twenty minutes to leave the property before I let the dogs off their leashes."
Frank's face went from pale to completely gray. He bowed his head, turned on his heel, and walked away down the hall without another word.
I swung my legs out of bed, standing up in my silk trousers. I walked over to where Sophia was kneeling on the floor, holding her weeping daughter.
Sophia flinched as my shadow fell over her, drawing Lily deeper into her lap.
I didn't reach for a gun. I didn't raise my voice. Instead, I knelt down on one knee, bringing myself to eye level with the terrified housekeeper.
"Sophia," I said gently.
She blinked, startled by the tone. In two years, I had barely spoken twenty words to her beyond brief instructions about lunch schedules or laundry preferences.
"She isn't in trouble," I said quietly, looking at Lily, who was currently waving her rabbit at me from over her mother's shoulder. "And neither are you."
"Mr. Moretti, I... I don't know how she got in here," Sophia stammered, wiping a tear from her cheek. "She's never done this before. I lock the cottage doors every night, but she must have found the spare key on the counter..."
"Sophia," I interrupted, resting my hand gently on Lily’s head, her soft curls warm against my palm. "Your daughter gave me something three teams of international doctors couldn't give me in three years."
Sophia frowned, utterly confused. "What?"
"Seven hours of sleep," I replied truthfully.
Sophia stared at me as if I had spoken in ancient Greek. She looked at her daughter, then back at me, her brain struggling to reconcile the terrifying mafia Don in front of her with the man talking about a toddler's sleep aid.
"She... she told you a story?" Sophia asked hesitantly.
"She told me a story about a lion, a mouse, and bad wolves," I said, keeping my eyes locked on Sophia’s face, watching every micro-expression. "She also mentioned a key under a stone left by a brother."
The moment those words left my mouth, Sophia's posture changed.
It wasn't subtle. Her shoulders locked up. Her pupils dilated instantly. A sudden, sharp spike of absolute, genuine panic flashed through her eyes—not the fear of an angry employer, but the fear of a woman who had just heard a ghost speak.
"Where did she hear that story, Sophia?" I asked softly, my tone turning dangerously precise.
Sophia swallowed hard, her hand tightening around Lily’s waist. "It's... it's just a bedtime story, Mr. Moretti. A fairy tale my grandmother used to tell me in Italy."
"Your grandmother used to tell you about my brother Anthony?" I pressed, stepping closer.
"No!" Sophia gasped quickly, her breath catching. "No, of course not! It's just a story about animals! Kids make things up all the time!"
She was lying.
She was a terrible liar. Her collarbone was flushed, her pulse was hammering against the side of her throat, and she refused to make direct eye contact with me.
I stood up slowly, towering over her once more.
I could have squeezed the truth out of her. In my world, when someone lied to Dominic Moretti, they were taken to a basement until the truth came spilling out alongside their blood. But as I looked down at the child sitting in her lap—the child who had sat on my chest in yellow lion pajamas and restored my sanity—I knew I could never use force against this woman.
"Go back to the cottage, Sophia," I said calmly. "Make your daughter breakfast. Take the day off."
Sophia looked up at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of immense relief and profound dread. She didn't ask questions. She scrambled to her feet, pulled Lily into her arms, and hurried out of my bedroom as fast as her feet could carry her.
I stood alone in my sunlit bedroom, listening to the quiet house.
I walked over to the nightstand, picked up my secure, encrypted satellite phone, and dialed a number I hadn't called in six months.
The line rang twice before a deep, gravelly voice answered.
"Dominic? Is someone dead?"
"Not yet, Uncle Silvio," I said smoothly, walking toward the grand floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the east gardens and the staff cottage below. "I'm calling to invite you to dinner tonight at the estate. Just family."
A pause on the other end of the line. Uncle Silvio—my father's brother, the senior advisor to the Moretti family, and the man who had taken control of our European operations after Anthony died.
"Dinner?" Silvio sounded intrigued, yet cautious. "You haven't hosted a family dinner since Milan, Dominic. The elders are saying you've become a recluse. They say the insomnia is driving you mad."
"The elders talk too much," I replied, watching through the glass as Sophia carried Lily into the staff cottage, quickly locking the door behind her. "Tell the family I have made a decision about Anthony's estate. And I want everyone here at eight o'clock."
"Very well," Silvio murmured. "We will be there."
I hung up the phone.
I looked down at the nightstand, where Lily's little gray plush rabbit sat on the dark mahogany wood—she had forgotten Barnaby in her mother's panic.
I picked up the worn plush toy, feeling its light cotton weight in my hand.
May you like
"A key under the stone," I whispered to the empty room.
The game was no longer being played in the dark.
