Chapter 3 - The Gift in the Snow
By midnight, the storm had passed, leaving the night sky over the Moretti estate clear, brilliant, and freezing.
The heavy black SUV pulled through the iron gates. Aleandro stepped out into the quiet courtyard, the cold air washing away the smell of diesel and gunpowder from his suit. He gestured for Marco to dismiss the extra guards and walked alone toward the east wing.
He didn't go to his master bedroom.
Instead, his boots crunched softly against the fresh snow as he walked down the narrow stone pathway leading toward the servants' quarters.
Outside the small apartment, lying in his usual spot on the heavy wool mat, was Bruno. The dog lifted his massive head, his ears pricking up as he recognized Aleandro’s scent. He didn't growl. He didn't rise to attack. He simply let out a low, warm huff of air, his tail thumping once against the stone.
Beside the dog, sitting on a small wooden bench protected by the roof overhang, was a small, crudely wrapped box tied with a red ribbon.
Aleandro stopped. He looked at the dog, then reached down and picked up the box.
Attached to the ribbon was a piece of white construction paper. Drawn on it in bright red and blue crayon was a stick figure of a giant black dog, a smaller stick figure wearing a red dress, and a third tall stick figure wearing a black suit and a funny little crown.
Underneath the drawing, written in neat, careful handwriting—Sophia's handwriting—were the words:
Thank you for letting us stay, Mr. Moretti. Emma wanted you to have this.
Aleandro stood in the freezing courtyard, holding the tiny box in his gloved hands. He untied the ribbon and opened the cardboard lid.
Inside lay a small, carved wooden dog—a rough, child-painted toy of a Cane Corso, painted black with a bright blue collar. It was crude, uneven, and held zero monetary value.
Aleandro picked up the wooden toy. It was light, almost weightless. But holding it in his hand, standing in the dark, cold estate where he had spent a decade building walls of iron, gunmetal, and blood, the toy felt heavier than gold.
Bruno leaned his broad head against Aleandro’s knee, letting out a deep sigh.
Aleandro reached down, his gloved fingers sinking into the thick, coarse fur behind the dog's ears—a place he hadn't been able to touch without triggering a growl in over two years. Bruno closed his eyes, leaning his full weight into his master's hand.
"She gave you a blue collar, huh?" Aleandro murmured softly to the dog.
Bruno’s tail thumped against the doorframe.
Aleandro carefully slipped the wooden toy into the inner breast pocket of his coat, right next to his heart. He looked up at the small curtained window of the apartment, where a dim nightlight glowed warmly against the glass.
For thirty-five years, Aleandro had lived by a strict, unforgiving code: Trust no one. Show no weakness. Keep everyone at a distance. It was the code that had kept him alive when his father was assassinated. It was the code that had built his empire.
But as he stood there in the snow, feeling the steady thump of his dog's tail and the wooden toy resting against his ribs, he realized that a fortress without warmth was nothing more than a very expensive tomb.
He patted Bruno’s head one last time. "Watch the door," he ordered quietly.
May you like
Bruno gave a short, quiet whine of understanding and rested his jaw back onto his paws.
Aleandro turned and walked back toward the main house. His stride was still powerful, his presence still lethal, but the cold, dead stillness that had filled his chest for years had begun to break.
