Chapter 2 - The Lion's Den
"Get them to the car," Ricardo commanded, standing up in one fluid, terrifying motion.
His underboss, a towering man named Dominic, stepped forward instantly. "And the restaurant, Boss?"
"Keep them locked in for another thirty minutes," Ricardo said, not looking back. "No phones. No calls. Anyone who speaks a word of what happened tonight doesn't see tomorrow."
Before I could process what was happening, I was being ushered out of the back exit of Il Verano. I held Leah tightly against my chest, her small arms wrapped like a vice around my neck. She refused to let go, whimpering every time I tried to adjust my grip.
We were pushed into the back of a heavily armored black SUV. The doors slammed shut, sealing us in a plush, leather-lined silence.
Ricardo sat across from us. He had pulled a silver flask from his coat, taking a long, slow drink before staring out the tinted window at the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan.
"Why?" I asked, my voice trembling as I stroked Leah's dark curls. "Why would my father do this?"
"Because Charles Vance is running for Senate," Ricardo said, his voice dripping with cold disgust. "An unwed daughter having a child with an unnamed father doesn't fit the pristine, family-first campaign he's running. And Sofia..." He paused, his expression darkening. "Sofia was barren. Her father, the Chief, wanted to secure his alliance with the Moretti family by giving me an heir. They traded your daughter like a piece of real estate to buy a politician's career and a mafia boss's loyalty."
"And you didn't know?" I demanded, anger finally cutting through my shock. "You're the head of the Moretti family! You expect me to believe you didn't check where your own daughter came from?"
Ricardo looked at me. For a moment, the dangerous mafia don vanished, replaced by a man carrying a profound, quiet guilt.
"I loved Sofia," he said softly. "When she brought Leah home, she was so happy. I didn't ask questions because I wanted to believe it. But the moment Leah arrived, she was silent. She didn't cry. She didn't speak. For two years, I have hired every specialist in Europe and America. They told me it was elective mutism. Trauma."
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He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto mine.
"She wasn't traumatized because she couldn't speak, Clara. She was waiting for you."
