Chapter 3 - The Apartment Above the Bakery
The scent of roasting espresso beans and warm cinnamon drifted up through the floorboards of the small apartment on Thirty-First Street in Astoria.
Naomi stood by the small, yellowed sink, scrubbing a secondhand mug with a blue sponge.
The apartment was tiny—less than six hundred square feet. The radiator in the corner clanked and hissed like an angry teapot, the wallpaper in the hallway was peeling at the seams, and the street noise below was a constant symphony of honking yellow cabs, shouting street vendors, and overhead subway trains.
It was loud. It was cramped. It was old.
And it was the first place in three years where Naomi could breathe without feeling like her lungs were filled with dust.
She set the mug down, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her body ached from her three-mile walk through the rain the night before, and her dark hair was tied back in a loose, practical knot. She wore no makeup, no designer silks. Just a worn grey sweatshirt and faded jeans.
A knock sounded at the door.
It wasn't a violent kick, nor was it the polite double-tap of a delivery driver. It was three slow, heavy thuds that vibrated the cheap wooden frame.
Naomi didn't flinch. She had known he would come.
She walked down the narrow hallway, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled the door open.
Dominic stood in the dim, narrow corridor of the apartment building.
He looked completely out of place. His tailored Italian coat was too broad for the hallway, his handmade leather shoes were dusted with subway grime, and his presence made the small space feel suddenly suffocating. He looked at her through the shadows, his bitter-coffee eyes tracking every detail of her face.
He looked for tears. He looked for regret. He found neither.
“Your security here is a joke,” Dominic said by way of greeting, his voice low and tight. “The front lock on the street level can be picked with a paperclip.”
“Good morning, Dominic,” Naomi said quietly, holding the door open. “Come in before the neighbors start asking why a mafia Don is blocking the staircase.”
Dominic stepped past her into the living room. His eyes swept over the space—the sagging green velvet sofa, the scuffed coffee table covered in old paperbacks, the small window looking out over the elevated train tracks.
He looked at it as if it were a disease.
“You’re living in a closet,” he said, turning around.
“It’s my grandmother’s closet,” Naomi replied, leaning her hip against the small kitchen counter. “It’s warm, it’s quiet, and nobody in this building shoots at the windows.”
Dominic took a slow step toward her. The tension radiating off his body was palpable, a tightly wound spring waiting to snap.
“You left your ring on my desk,” he said.
“I left everything that wasn't mine.”
“It was yours!” Dominic’s voice rose, cracking through the small apartment like a whip. “I gave it to you! The house, the cars, the accounts—they were all yours!”
“No, Dominic,” Naomi said, her tone remaining impossibly steady, impossibly calm. “They were yours. They were tools you used to decorate a life you didn't have time to live. I was just the statue you placed in the foyer so people thought you had a home.”
Dominic flinched as if she had struck him across the cheek.
He closed the distance between them, stopping two feet away. Up close, she could see the dark circles under his eyes, the subtle tremor in his jaw. The invincible ruler of New York looked, for the first time in his life, utterly unsettled.
“I kept you safe,” Dominic rasped, reaching out as if to touch her shoulder, but stopping his hand mid-air. “In three years, no rival family ever came near you. No federal agent ever served you a subpoena. I built a wall around you, Naomi.”
“You built a prison, Dominic,” she whispered back. “And you were so busy guarding the gates that you forgot to check if anyone was dying inside.”
Dominic stared down at her, his broad chest heaving under his dark coat.
For three years, he had operated under the belief that providing absolute luxury, absolute protection, and the Moretti name was the highest form of love a man in his position could offer. He had watched his own mother die in a hail of gunfire because his father had been careless. He had promised himself that his wife would never be exposed to that terror.
He had given her safety.
He had forgotten to give her himself.
“Come home,” Dominic said softly, the harsh edge in his voice completely dissolving. “Please, Naomi. Come home. We can talk. We can fix this.”
Naomi looked up into his dark eyes, seeing the desperate, confused man behind the terrifying reputation. A small, sad smile touched her lips.
“I am home, Dominic,” she said softly. “Now, please leave.”
May you like
Before Dominic could answer, the floorboards in the hallway creaked sharply outside the door.
Dominic’s instincts kicked in instantly. In a split second, his hand dropped inside his coat, gripping the polished handle of his heavy automatic pistol. He shoved Naomi behind his broad back, stepping between her and the entrance as the apartment door burst inward.
