Chapter 5 - The Anatomy of Grief
The next morning broke cold and grey over Lake Forest. Rain still dusted the glass windows of my temporary suite, which was larger and more luxurious than my entire apartment in North Chicago.
By 6:00 AM, I was already awake. Instincts hardwired into my soul took over. I showered, pulled my hair back into a neat bun, and dressed in the simple slate-grey scrubs that Mrs. Gable had provided.
When I entered the nursery, Julian was just beginning to stir.
"Good morning, little guy," I whispered, reaching into the crib to lift him.
He was significantly better than the night before. His skin was warm, his eyes were clear, and when I gently pressed on his abdomen, it was soft and non-tender. The severe colic spasm had passed, but his digestive system was still delicate.
I carried him down to the kitchen to prepare his formula.
The kitchen of Villa Moretti was commercial-grade, filled with stainless steel appliances and custom marble countertops. A team of chefs was already busy preparing breakfast, but they all quieted down when I walked in carrying the heir.
"Good morning, Miss Vance," Mrs. Gable said, rushing over with a warm towel. "Let me take the master so you can eat."
"It's fine, Mrs. Gable," I said gently. "I need to check the formula he’s been drinking. Can you show me the canisters?"
Mrs. Gable led me to a pantry, pointing to three large cans of high-end, imported infant formula.
I picked up one canister and read the ingredient label carefully. My brow furrowed. "Who selected this brand?"
"The previous nurse, Miss," Mrs. Gable replied. "It’s imported from Switzerland. Very expensive."
"It’s also heavy in concentrated lactose and palm oil," I explained, rubbing my forehead. "For a newborn with a sensitive GI tract, this is like pouring cement into his stomach. No wonder he was screaming for six hours. He couldn't digest it."
"Dear Lord..." Mrs. Gable gasped. "We had no idea."
"It’s not your fault," I said soothingly. "I’ll write down a list of a hydrolyzed, hypoallergenic formula brand. We need it delivered today. Along with anti-colic ventilation bottles."
"I will have Frankie go to the pharmacy immediately," a voice spoke from the kitchen doorway.
I turned to see Dominic standing there. He was dressed in a tailored black suit, holding a dark cup of espresso. He looked imposing as ever, but there was an unusual stillness in his eyes as he watched me hold his son.
"Good morning, Mr. Moretti," I said, adjusting Julian in my arm.
"Dominic," he corrected flatly. "In this house, you call me Dominic."
"Dominic," I repeated, the word feeling heavy on my tongue. "Julian needs his feeding routine completely altered. I also need his medical records from the hospital where he was born."
Dominic’s jaw tightened slightly at the mention of the hospital. "Why?"
"Because he was born prematurely at thirty-six weeks, correct?" I asked. "His digestive tract is behind in development. I need to review his APGAR scores, his birth weight trajectory, and his mother's prenatal records to ensure there are no underlying cardiac or metabolic issues."
The room went completely quiet at the mention of his late wife. Mrs. Gable quickly excused herself, leading the kitchen staff out of the room to give us privacy.
Dominic walked slowly toward me, stopping near the marble island. "His mother had no underlying conditions until the hemorrhage," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion—a protective shell built around deep, unhealed trauma. "The medical records will be delivered to your suite by noon."
I looked at him closely. I recognized that emotional wall. I had lived behind it myself for four years.
"You don't hold him," I said softly, the observation slipping out before I could stop it.
Dominic froze. "What?"
"Since last night, you haven't held him once," I said gently, cradling Julian close to my chest. "You stand near him. You protect him. You would kill for him. But you don't hold him."
Dominic’s dark eyes flashed with sudden, defensive anger. "I am managing an empire and keeping him alive, Miss Vance. My physical affection is not a prerequisite for his survival."
"Actually, it is," I countered, refusing to back down. "Skin-to-skin contact regulates an infant's heart rate, cortisol levels, and body temperature. But more than that... he needs to know his father isn't afraid of him."
"I am not afraid of my son," Dominic growled softly, stepping closer.
"You’re afraid of loving him," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Because every time you look at him, you see the woman you lost. And you’re terrified that if you let yourself love him completely, something will take him away from you, too."
Dominic stared at me, his eyes dark, storm clouds gathering in his gaze. The silence between us stretched tight, thick with unspoken pain.
"You know nothing about me, Clara," he whispered, his tone lethal.
"I know grief, Dominic," I said softly, meeting his fiery glare with calm, quiet empathy. "I know it because I lost my son four years ago. And I know that pushing your child away doesn't protect you from the pain. It just makes the room colder."
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Dominic stared at me, his chest heaving slightly. For three long seconds, the terrifying mob boss vanished, replaced by a man utterly undone by truth.
Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the gentle breathing of his son.
