Chapter 2 - The Proposal in the Dark
I stood frozen on the wet sidewalk, the rain soaking through the cheap fabric of my coat, plastering my hair to my cheeks. Inside the cavernous, heated interior of the Escalade, Ricardo Moretti looked like a monarch sitting in his private moving fortress.
“I don’t take offers from men who settle disputes with guns and intimidation,” I said, my voice shaking slightly despite my best efforts to sound brave.
Ricardo didn’t blink. He didn’t shout, and he didn't summon his bodyguard from the front seat. He simply tilted his head, studying me the way a master architect might study a cracked foundation—assessing whether it was worth saving or demolishing.
“If I wanted you gone, Clara, you wouldn't be standing here having a philosophical debate with me in the rain,” Ricardo said, his deep, velvet voice carrying an absolute, terrifying certainty. “Get in before you catch pneumonia. My son is currently waking up from his nap in the penthouse, and he is asking for the lady who smells like vanilla and milk.”
My breath caught. The mention of Leo—the way his little arms had clung to me like I was his last anchor in a stormy sea—undermined every instinct telling me to run.
With a reluctant sigh that tasted like defeat, I ducked my head and climbed into the back seat.
The door thudded shut behind me with a heavy, armored seal that instantly cut off the roar of the city streets. The interior smelled of fine leather, cedarwood, and expensive bourbon. As the Escalade smoothly pulled back into traffic, Dante Russo twisted around in the front passenger seat, eyeing me through the rearview mirror with a look of cautious appraisal.
“Drive to the Upper East Side,” Ricardo instructed Dante without taking his eyes off me.
I crossed my arms, shrinking back against the plush leather door. “Where are we going? If this is some kind of interrogation—”
“It’s a business discussion,” Ricardo interrupted, leaning back and resting his arm along the console. “You lost your job because of my son. It’s only fair that I replace it.”
“I don’t want your charity, Mr. Moretti.”
“Good. I don’t give charity.” He leaned forward, the dim cabin light catching the hard angles of his face. “You saw Leo tonight. You saw what every high-priced pediatrician, nanny, and therapist in Manhattan has missed for the last six months. He’s terrified, he’s grieving, and he’s completely shut down everyone I’ve paid to look after him.”
“Maybe because you treat his life like a corporate merger,” I retorted sharply, the exhaustion of the past year making my temper flare. “Money doesn't buy a mother, Mr. Moretti. You can’t outsource a bedtime story or a feeling of safety.”
A muscle twitched in Ricardo’s jaw. For a second, a flash of pure, dangerous aggression flared in his dark eyes—the kind of look that probably made grown men sign over their companies. But then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, replaced by a hollow, crushing exhaustion.
“His mother died six months ago,” Ricardo said, his voice dropping so low I almost didn't catch it. “A car accident on the FDR drive. The press called it a tragic accident. The police closed the file in forty-eight hours. But Leo knows something was wrong. Kids absorb things we think they’re too young to understand. Ever since that night, he hasn't slept for more than three hours straight. He breaks things. He screams. And tonight… tonight was the first time in half a year that he actually fell asleep without crying himself into sickness.”
The anger drained out of me, leaving behind a cold, aching hollow in my chest. I looked out the tinted window at the blurred neon lights of the city flashing past.
“I’m sorry for his loss,” I murmured softly. “Truly. But I’m a waitress, Mr. Moretti. Not a child psychologist.”
“You’re someone who understood his language,” Ricardo countered instantly. “And right now, that’s worth more than a dozen medical degrees.”
The Escalade slowed down, turning through a set of wrought-iron security gates that slid open automatically. We entered a private courtyard surrounded by towering limestone walls, pulling up beneath a grand, covered portico of a penthouse apartment building overlooking Central Park.
As we stepped out of the car, a team of silent, efficient staff met us in the marble-floored private lobby. Ricardo ignored them, leading me directly toward a private elevator that required both a digital code and a retinal scan to operate.
The elevator shot upward in silence. My stomach dropped as the digital display climbed past the fortieth floor.
When the doors slid open, I stepped out into a space that took my breath away.
It wasn't a home; it was a glass-walled palace suspended in the night sky. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic, glittering view of the Manhattan skyline and the dark, sprawling expanse of Central Park below. Minimalist modern art, polished concrete, and black steel dominated the decor. It was breathtaking, stunning—and utterly, chillingly cold.
There were no toys on the floor. There were no family pictures on the walls. It was a high-security fortress disguised as modern luxury.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, stopping near the edge of a massive white sofa. “This is impressive, but—”
“Stay here,” he interrupted, walking down a long, dimly lit corridor.
A minute later, he returned. In his arms, wrapped in a pale blue dinosaur blanket, was Leo.
The little boy’s hair was sleep-mussed, his eyelids heavy. When he spotted me standing by the window, his face lit up with a sleepy, disbelieving smile. He squirmed out of Ricardo’s arms, patter-pattered across the expensive hardwood floor in his little dinosaur pajamas, and wrapped his arms tightly around my knees.
“You stayed,” Leo mumbled, burying his face in the hem of my skirt.
My heart melted into a puddle. I knelt down, pulling him gently into a hug, breathing in the scent of baby shampoo and cotton.
“I told you I was right here, bug,” I whispered against his soft curls.
Over Leo’s small shoulder, I looked up and met Ricardo’s gaze. The billionaire was standing motionless by the kitchen island, watching us with an expression I couldn't quite decipher—a mix of profound awe and deep, festering pain.
He walked over, stopping a few feet away, and knelt down to our eye level.
“Name your price, Clara Vance,” Ricardo said quietly.
I frowned, pulling back slightly from Leo. “What?”
“I am offering you a position as Leo’s live-in guardian and companion,” Ricardo said, his voice ringing with absolute authority. “You will have a private suite on this floor, unlimited access to any resources you require for him, and a salary that will make every financial worry you currently possess vanish by sunrise.”
I stared at him, stunned. “You want to hire me? Just like that? You don't even know who I am!”
“I know you walked past four armed men to hand a glass of milk to a screaming child without a shred of fear,” Ricardo replied smoothly. “I know you understand him better than anyone else has in six months. And I know you need money.”
He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a thick envelope, and laid it gently on the coffee table between us.
“That’s ten thousand dollars in cash as a signing bonus,” Ricardo continued, his dark eyes locking onto mine with hypnotic intensity. “A monthly retainer of twenty-five thousand on top of that. All you have to do is keep him safe, keep him grounded, and teach him how to breathe again.”
I looked at the envelope, then down at Leo, who had already drifted back to sleep with his cheek pressed against my arm.
Ten thousand dollars. It would clear my medical debt. It would pay off my back rent. It would buy me a year of breathing room.
But working for Ricardo Moretti meant stepping directly into the crosshairs of whatever violent, shadowy world he inhabited. It meant wearing golden handcuffs in a glass cage.
“And if I say no?” I asked softly.
May you like
Ricardo’s expression hardened into stone. A shadow passed over his face, turning the room ten degrees colder.
“You won't say no,” he murmured, leaning in just close enough that I could smell the faint scent of mint and gunmetal. “Because you already love him.”
