Chapter 4 - THE TASTE OF DANGER
By the end of the first week, the estate had developed a strange, fragile routine.
The heavy, suffocating fear that had hung over the house like a shroud began to lift, replaced by the mundane, rhythmic sounds of infant care. The high-ceilinged living room was no longer an echoing tomb; it was now filled with the soft white noise of a steam humidifier, the gentle creak of the velvet rocking chair, and the quiet, low melodies of Mozart playing through a small speaker on the sideboard.
Mateo was transforming.
His cheeks had filled out, taking on a healthy, rosy glow. The dark purple rings beneath his eyes had faded, and he had learned that when he whimpered, someone—usually me, but occasionally a terrified, six-foot-four bodyguard named Vito—would immediately come to pick him up.
Vito, who usually spent his days checking the undercarriages of Mercedes sedan for explosive devices, had become shockingly adept at warming milk bottles to exactly ninety-eight point six degrees.
“He likes the blue blanket better than the green one,” Vito declared proudly on Friday morning, standing in the kitchen while I prepared Mateo’s morning feed. “If you give him the green one, he kicks his feet out.”
I couldn't help but smile, leaning against the granite counter with a mug of black coffee in my hand. “You’re becoming a regular nanny, Vito.”
Vito flushed dark red, adjusting his shoulder holster over his shoulder. “Don't let the boss hear you say that. He thinks I’m supervising the perimeter.”
“The boss hasn't been home in two days,” I said, my voice dropping slightly as the smile faded from my lips.
It was true. Dominic had vanished shortly after our conversation in the hallway on Tuesday night. He hadn't returned to the estate, though his presence hung over the house like a storm system waiting to break. Every morning, a fresh stack of local newspapers arrived at the kitchen door, their front pages filled with subtle, coded reports of warehouse fires in the industrial district and mysterious shifts in ownership along the riverfront docks.
Dominic was cleaning house.
At three o'clock that afternoon, the heavy oak doors of the foyer clicked open.
I was sitting in the sunny alcove off the main dining room, holding Mateo as he finished his afternoon bottle.
Dominic walked in.
He looked battered. His crisp white shirt was rumpled, stained with dark grease and faint rust marks at the cuff. There was a thin, dark red cut along his jawline, freshly scabbed over, and his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.
He stopped in the doorway of the alcove, his dark wool coat hanging loose over his arm, staring at the scene in front of him.
I was wearing a simple grey sweater and jeans, my hair tied back in a loose bun, holding his son in the warm sunlight filtering through the tall glass windows. Mateo was staring up at my face, making small, content gurgling sounds as he worked on the nipple of the bottle.
For a long, frozen moment, Dominic didn't say a word. He just stood there, breathing slowly, as if soaking in a scene from a world he wasn't sure he was allowed to belong to.
“You’re back,” I said softly.
“I am,” he said, his voice hoarse.
He set his coat on a chair and walked slowly into the alcove. He looked down at the cut on his own hand—a split knuckle covered in dried blood—and hesitated before sitting down on the window bench across from me.
“He gained weight,” Dominic noted, his eyes fixed on Mateo’s chubby legs.
“Eight ounces,” I said, pulling the bottle away and burping Mateo over my shoulder with three light taps. “He’s sleeping six hours a night now.”
Dominic reached out, his heavy fingers surprisingly gentle as he touched the soft fold of Mateo’s blanket.
“And you?” Dominic asked, his amber eyes shifting up to meet mine. “Are you sleeping?”
“Better than I have in four years,” I admitted quietly.
Dominic’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why four years?”
I stiffened, my fingers tightening against Mateo’s back. The warm sunlight in the alcove suddenly felt cold, thin, and brittle.
“It doesn't matter,” I said, looking down at the rug.
“It matters to me,” Dominic said softly. He didn't use the commanding tone he used with his guards. It was the same quiet, heavy voice he had used when he asked me why his baby was screaming at Bellavita. “You carry a ghost around with you, Claire. I see it every time you look at him when you think nobody is watching.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
“I had a son,” I whispered, the words coming out like glass shards from my throat. “His name was Leo. He had a hypoplastic left heart. He died when he was three weeks old.”
The room went completely silent, save for the soft sound of Mateo’s rhythmic breathing against my neck.
Dominic didn't offer empty pity. He didn't say he was sorry. A man like Dominic knew that empty words were useless against real grief.
Instead, he stood up, moved across the small alcove, and sat down on the bench right beside me. He didn't touch me, but his presence—solid, warm, and absolute—felt like a shield against the cold draft coming through the window.
“Three weeks,” Dominic repeated softly. “The same age Mateo was when you found us.”
“Yes,” I choked out, a single tear slipping past my lashes. “When he choked at the restaurant... I thought I was losing him all over again. I couldn't let it happen twice, Dominic. I couldn't.”
Dominic reached out, his rough, calloused palm cupping the back of my neck, pulling my head gently toward his chest.
May you like
I didn't pull away. I leaned into his shoulder, burying my face in the soft wool of his vest, letting the tears I had kept locked away behind professional walls for four long years spill out onto his shirt.
He held me there—a ruthless mafia don holding a broken pediatric nurse—while his son slept peacefully between us, washed in the warm, quiet light of an afternoon sun that felt, for the very first time, like home.
