Chapter 2 - The Red Shoes of Salem Street
The Mercedes-Maybach pulled up to the curb on Newbury Street, its heavy tires crunching over the fresh, pristine snow.
Inside the heated leather cabin, Emma sat on the edge of the plush cream seat, her feet dangling inches above the floor mats. She held a silver cup of hot chocolate with both hands, her wide eyes reflecting the bright, festive holiday lights hanging from the high-end storefront windows.
Sophia sat beside her, rigid as a board, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles were white. She hadn't spoken three words since they left the estate. To a woman who had lived under the heavy, terrifying shadow of the Moretti family’s reputation in the North End for a decade, sitting in the back of Alessandro Moretti’s private car felt less like a luxury and more like a trip to an execution.
"Drink it before it gets cold," Alessandro said from the front passenger seat. He hadn't turned around, but he was watching them in the rearview mirror.
"Thank you, Mr. Moretti," Sophia whispered. "Really... you don't have to do this. We can't accept—"
"You are not accepting anything, Mrs. Rossi," Alessandro cut her off, his voice flat. "Your daughter gave me her coat when she thought I was cold. In my world, debts are settled immediately."
Dante, Alessandro’s chief bodyguard and driver—a thick-necked man with a jagged scar running down his jawline—stepped out into the snow and opened the rear door.
"We're here, Boss," Dante said, his gruff voice surprisingly gentle as he offered a large, gloved hand to help Emma down onto the pavement.
They stood in front of Bergman & Sons, the most exclusive children's boutique in Boston. Gold lettering adorned the dark glass doors, and inside, soft classical music drifted out into the street.
When the store manager, an overly polished man named Mr. Higgins, saw Alessandro Moretti enter, his face underwent a terrifying transformation from snobbish indifference to absolute, groveling terror.
"M-Mr. Moretti!" Higgins bowed so low his silver glasses nearly slid off his nose. "What an unexpected honor! How may Bergman & Sons serve the family today?"
"Shoes," Alessandro said, pointing a long finger down at Emma’s tape-bound sneakers. "And a coat. The best you have."
Higgins looked down at Emma’s worn overalls and dirty face, a fraction of hesitation flickering across his eyes. It lasted less than a second before he felt Alessandro’s dark, freezing gaze lock onto him.
"Right away, sir! Right away!" Higgins squeaked, turning frantically toward his staff. "Bring out the winter collection! Everything in size six!"
For the next hour, Emma Rossi experienced a world she didn't know existed.
Saleswomen carried out armfuls of soft wool coats, silk-lined jackets, fur-trimmed parkas, and rows of pristine leather boots. Emma sat on a velvet stool, her tiny mouth open in wonder as Higgins personally knelt on the carpet, fitting her feet into soft, warm socks and sturdy, waterproof winter boots.
Sophia stood near the entrance, holding her breath, tears constantly threatening to spill over her eyelashes.
"Try these," Alessandro said, walking over to a display. He picked up a pair of deep crimson leather boots with thick fur lining and silver buckles.
He walked over to Emma, knelt down on one knee on the velvet carpet—a man worth hundreds of millions, a man who made city commissioners tremble—and gently held Emma’s small foot in his hand. He slid the red boot over her heel, zipping it up softly.
"How do they feel?" he asked her.
Emma wiggled her toes inside the plush, warm sheepskin lining. A brilliant, radiant smile broke across her face—the first real smile Alessandro had seen on her.
"They're warm, Mister," she giggled, stomping her foot gently on the rug. "They feel like clouds!"
"Then we take them," Alessandro said. He looked at Higgins. "Keep the rest of the winter coats, the sweaters, and six pairs of these boots in different sizes so she doesn't run out as she grows. Send the bill to my office."
"Immediately, Mr. Moretti!" Higgins gushed.
As they walked back out to the waiting Maybach, Emma stomped her new red boots into the fresh snow, watching the clean impressions they left on the pavement. She looked up at Alessandro, holding her new thick, dark navy wool coat tightly around herself.
"Mister?" she called out, reaching up to tug gently on the hem of his dark suit jacket.
Alessandro paused, looking down at her. "Yes?"
"Why did you burn that green paper in the fireplace?" she asked innocently. "Mama says paper like that pays for milk."
Sophia gasped, reaching out to grab her daughter. "Emma! Hush!"
Alessandro gestured for Sophia to stop. He looked down into Emma’s clear hazel eyes, the cold cynicism that had governed his life for twenty years feeling strangely flimsy under her gaze.
"Because, Emma," Alessandro said quietly, "that paper was put there to see if people were bad. But you showed me something that paper couldn't buy."
"What did I show you?" she asked, tilting her head.
Alessandro reached out, his thumb gently wiping a spot of dried hot chocolate from her cheek.
"That some people are still good," he murmured. "Even when the world gives them every reason not to be."
As Dante held the car door open, a dark sedan parked across the street under the shadow of an alleyway flicked its high beams once, twice, then pulled quietly out into the traffic.
Inside the dark sedan sat Victor Falcone—Alessandro’s ambitious, ruthless underboss—and Paulie "The Weasel" Bellini, the son of the estate’s head housekeeper, Rosa.
"Look at that," Paulie sneered, pointing a greasy finger at the scene outside the boutique. "The Don is playing grandfather to a maid’s bastard. He’s soft, Victor. He burnt five grand in the library today because the kid didn't steal it. He’s losing his edge."
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Victor Falcone dragged slowly on his cigarette, the orange ember casting an ugly shadow across his pockmarked face.
"He isn't soft, Paulie," Victor grunted, his eyes narrowing as he watched Alessandro help the girl into the Maybach. "He’s distracted. And a distracted Don is a dead Don. Tell your mother to keep her eyes open at the estate. The shipments from Pier 14 come in on Tuesday. When Moretti moves the money, we move."
