Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Clara Moretti
I didn't sleep a single minute that night.
The east wing suite was larger than my entire apartment building in South Philly. It featured high ceilings, plush Persian rugs, a roaring marble fireplace, and a king-sized bed wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets.
Through the connecting double doors lay Leo’s nursery—a beautiful, sunlit room filled with hand-carved wooden toys, soft plush animals, and a state-of-the-art crib.
Every time I tried to lay Leo down in his crib, he would instantly wake up, his little fingers grabbing for my sweater, whimpering in distress until I picked him up again. In the end, I slept sitting upright on the plush velvet armchair beside the fireplace, holding the sleeping boy against my chest while two armed guards stood watch outside my bedroom door.
At six in the morning, a soft knock sounded at the double doors.
Luca stepped inside, carrying a silver tray with two porcelain cups of coffee and a plate of fresh pastries. He had discarded his suit jacket, wearing a simple black cashmere sweater and dark trousers.
“You didn't sleep,” he noted quietly, setting the tray down on the small table beside my chair.
“Would you?” I retorted, my voice dry. “Yesterday I was worrying about my landlord. Today I’m sitting in a mob fortress holding a baby who refuses to let go of me.”
Luca pulled up a wooden chair and sat across from me, taking a slow sip of his coffee.
“He likes you,” Luca said softly, staring at his son. “In ten months, I have never seen him sleep like that.”
“Why?” I asked, looking into Luca’s eyes. “Why does he react to me like this? You said he never lets any woman touch him.”
Luca fell silent for a long moment, staring into the flickering embers of the fireplace.
“Leo’s mother... my wife, Elena... died during childbirth,” Luca revealed, his voice dropping into a dark, painful register. “She was sick throughout her entire pregnancy. When Leo was born, he spent three weeks in an intensive care incubator. Elena died before she could ever hold him.”
I felt a sharp pang of sorrow in my chest. “I’m sorry, Luca.”
“When I brought him home, he refused to let anyone touch him,” Luca continued. “Except for one thing. My aunt Clara—your mother—left behind an old leather-bound journal and a audio recording of her voice singing traditional Italian lullabies. When Leo was a newborn, the only way we could calm him down was by playing your mother’s recorded voice on a speaker beside his crib.”
My breath hitched. “My mother’s voice?”
“Yes,” Luca said, looking at me with deep intensity. “You sound exactly like her, Avery. Your cadence, your voice, your scent... to Leo’s instinct, you are the closest thing to the mother he never knew. You carry the blood of the woman who sang him to sleep every night of his life.”
Tears blurred my vision. I looked down at the sleeping boy in my arms, gently brushing a soft lock of blond hair from his forehead.
“And my mother?” I asked quietly. “Why did she leave this place? Why did she hide from the Moretti family?”
Luca’s expression hardened into solid ice.
“Twenty years ago, our grandfather was the head of the syndicate,” Luca explained. “A rival family—the Valenti crime syndicate—attempted a hostile takeover of Philadelphia. They targeted Clara because she managed our family’s legitimate accounts and trusts. My father hid her in South Philly under a false name to protect her.”
“And then she died in a car crash,” I said.
“It wasn't a crash,” Luca said coldly. “The Valentis cut the brake lines on her car. My father spent ten years hunting down the men responsible, but the mastermind—Don Dominic Valenti—escaped to New York.”
May you like
Luca stood up from his chair, stepping toward the window overlooking the estate grounds.
“Last week, Dominic Valenti returned to Philadelphia,” Luca said, his fists clenching at his sides. “And yesterday, his men spotted you at Aurelia.”
