Chapter 3 - The Men in Dark Suits
By eleven o'clock, the master study had been cleared of blood, broken glass, and medical wrappers with the silent, efficient precision that characterized the Moretti estate.
The private transport team had carried Adrian Moretti out through the rear terrace doors on a low, discreet gurney, hiding his face behind a blue canvas sheet until the dark Mercedes ambulance disappeared down the winding gravel driveway toward the highway.
Dante Russo had remained behind.
He stood by the mahogany desk, his jacket unbuttoned, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the room through narrowing eyes.
In the center of the Persian rug sat Sophia. She had exhausted her red crayon and was now using a dark blue one to draw what appeared to be an enormous submarine with legs.
Sitting beside her, his dark gray shoulder pressed directly against her small arm, was Titan. The Cane Corso had not left her side since the paramedics lifted Moretti onto the stretcher. When the guards had tried to hold the dog back with a leather catch-pole, Titan had snarled so fiercely that Dante had ordered them out of the room entirely, leaving only Elena, Sophia, and the animal.
Elena sat on a low velvet ottoman three feet away, holding a mug of tea that Mrs. Bellini had brought her fifteen minutes ago. The tea had gone stone-cold, but Elena’s hands were still shaking too badly to set the cup down on the table.
The heavy double doors of the study swung open.
Three men walked into the room.
The first was Vincent Moretti—known throughout the household and the city as "Don Vincent." He was eighty-two years old, the uncle of Adrian, and a man who had governed the family’s commercial interests for forty years before retiring to the West Wing with a silver-topped cane and an oxygen concentrator. He walked slowly, his polished black shoes sliding across the floorboards, supported on his right side by his eldest son, Carlo.
Carlo Moretti was forty-four, wore a six-thousand-dollar suit made of midnight-blue wool, and had eyes that moved constantly, measuring every person in the room as if assigning them a monetary value or a threat index.
Behind them walked a lawyer named Harrison, carrying a thin leather briefcase.
Titan’s ears picked up as the three men entered. He did not growl, but he let out a low, heavy huff that blew the blue crayon scrap off Sophia’s ledger page.
“Look, Barnaby,” Sophia whispered, catching the crayon scrap. “The old man has a shiny stick.”
Don Vincent stopped five feet inside the room. His thick, yellowed eyebrows rose as his dark eyes rested first on the five-year-old child, then on the massive dog leaning against her like a ninety-pound cushion, and finally on Elena in her yellow apron.
“What is this?” Vincent asked. His voice was like two gravel stones grinding together at the bottom of a well.
“This is Elena Castillo,” Dante said from behind the desk, stepping forward. “Housekeeping. And her daughter, Sophia.”
Carlo Moretti scoffed, stepping around his father’s cane. “Dante, what the hell is a maid’s kid doing in my cousin’s study? Where is Adrian?”
“Adrian is en route to St. Jude’s,” Dante replied smoothly. “Dr. Reynolds is with him. They’re running an angiogram now.”
“And the dog?” Carlo demanded, pointing a long, manicured finger toward Titan. “Why isn't that brute in the runs? He should have been locked up the second Adrian dropped.”
“That 'brute,'” Dante said, his voice hardening by a fraction of a degree, “wouldn't let Reynolds within ten feet of the boss. He stood over Adrian for twenty minutes. If it wasn't for this girl walking in here and calming him down, Adrian would be dead on that hearth right now.”
Carlo looked down at Sophia. His mouth curled into a thin, cynical line. “A five-year-old child?”
“She touched him,” Dante said flatly. “The dog let her. He let Reynolds put the oxygen mask on Adrian while she sat right there holding his nose.”
Don Vincent took two small steps forward, leaning heavily on his silver-headed cane. He looked at Sophia for a long, quiet moment.
“Child,” the old man said softly.
Sophia looked up from her ledger. She didn't look at his suit, or his cane, or the two broad-shouldered guards standing in the hallway behind him. She looked at his ears.
“You have big eyebrows,” Sophia observed.
Carlo’s face flushed red. “Listen here, you little—”
“Shut up, Carlo,” Don Vincent said without looking at his son. The old man’s face hadn't changed, but a tiny twitch appeared at the corner of his thin mouth. He looked at Titan, who was watching him with cool, unblinking intelligence. “The dog hasn't let anyone touch him except Adrian since he came from the kennels in Milan four years ago. Not even you, Dante.”
“I know,” Dante said.
“He knows who belongs,” Vincent murmured. He turned his gaze to Elena. “You are the mother?”
Elena stood up instantly, her legs feeling like wet paper. She dropped a small, awkward half-curtsy—a reflex from her childhood in San Salvador that she hadn't used in twenty years.
“Yes, sir,” Elena said, her voice barely audible. “I’m sorry, sir. She didn't mean to come in here. She was in the linen closet and she heard the noise—”
“She saved my nephew’s life,” Vincent interrupted flatly. “Do not apologize for what kept an enterprise from falling apart on a Tuesday morning.”
He looked back at the lawyer, Harrison, who was standing quietly near the door.
“Harrison.”
“Yes, Don Vincent?”
“If Adrian is incapacitated for more than forty-eight hours,” the old man said, his eyes scanning the quiet room, “the family council will meet on Thursday. Until then, nobody touches this room. Nobody touches the dog. And nobody touches this woman or her child.”
Carlo stepped forward, his voice rising in anger. “Father, that’s insane! We have meetings scheduled with the port authorities tomorrow! We can’t have a maid’s kid wandering around the executive suite while we’re trying to handle—”
“The maid’s kid,” Vincent said, turning his head slowly toward his son with an expression that made Carlo’s words freeze in his throat, “is currently the only person in this county who can prevent that monster from tearing out the throat of anyone who walks past that desk. Do you want to go in there and move Adrian’s papers, Carlo? Do you want to try taking the key out of his desk drawer with Titan sitting on the rug?”
Carlo looked at Titan. Titan looked back at Carlo, his upper lip twitching slightly.
Carlo took a half-step back.
“I thought so,” Don Vincent said quietly. He turned back to Elena. “What is your salary, Mrs. Castillo?”
May you like
“Fourteen dollars an hour, sir,” Elena whispered.
“It is now fifty,” Vincent said. He turned his back on them and began walking slowly toward the door, his cane clicking rhythmically against the floorboards. “Dante, assign two men to the third floor. Make sure the child has whatever crayons she wants. And get that dog a steak.”
