Chapter 2 - THE UNLOCKED DOOR
The last armored limousine left the Duca estate shortly after two in the morning.
By three, the sprawling stone mansion in Westchester had fallen into an absolute, unnatural silence. The crystal chandeliers were dark, the endless marble floors had been polished clean of every footprint, and the serving staff had retired to their quarters hidden behind the thick stone walls of the west wing.
Lorenzo sat alone in his private study on the third floor, illuminated only by the narrow green light of a heavy banker’s lamp.
He had removed his silk bow tie and unbuttoned his collar, but he still wore his tuxedo jacket. On the dark leather blotter directly in front of him lay Emma’s folded construction paper invitation with its childish red crayon heart.
He stared at it, his mind drifting backward across the unforgiving expanse of the last three years.
He remembered Isabella stepping three paces ahead of him into the cold April rain outside the restaurant in Little Italy. He remembered her laughing about lemon ice, her hand resting protectively over her swollen stomach. Then came the sharp, cracking roar of a silenced pistol from a passing black sedan.
He remembered throwing himself over her, the hot rush of blood, the terrible, fragile weight of her body in his arms, and the heat spreading through his own linen shirt while police sirens wailed from impossibly far away.
Her final words had been whispered against his collarbone. Isabella had never wasted breath trying to sound poetic or dramatic.
“Take care of the quiet things, Lorenzo... don't let the noise win.”
He had spent three years ensuring the noise never won. He had hunted down the triggermen, dismantled the rogue faction of the rival syndicate responsible, and turned the Duca family into an untouchable fortress. But in doing so, he had walled himself inside a tomb of his own making.
A soft, hesitant tap sounded at the heavy oak study door.
“Enter,” Lorenzo said without looking up.
The door clicked open, and Marco Rossi stepped into the amber light. He held a thick manila folder in one hand.
“You’re still awake,” Marco noted, closing the door quietly behind him.
“I don’t sleep well on Tuesdays, Marco. You know that.”
Marco walked over to the desk, laying the manila folder down beside the crayon heart. “I ran a background check on the housekeeper. Hannah Bennett. Twenty-nine years old. Born and raised in upstate New York. Her husband died four years ago in an industrial accident at a textile mill in Syracuse. She moved to the city with her daughter eighteen months ago, took a low-level cleaning job with our catering contractor, and was reassigned to our domestic payroll six months ago based on stellar cleaning reports.”
Lorenzo picked up the edge of the folder, though he didn't open it. “Is she connected to anyone? Any syndicates? Any residual ties to the families?”
“Clean as fresh linen,” Marco said, though his tone carried a note of lingering suspicion. “No debts, no criminal record, no secret boyfriends, no shady cousins. She works forty hours a week at the estate, cleans three private townhouses on the side, and drops her daughter off at St. Cecilia’s before dawn. She’s a ghost who only exists to pay rent and buy groceries.”
“Then why did she look so terrified tonight?” Lorenzo asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Because she works for us, Lorenzo,” Marco said bluntly, leaning both hands on the edge of the mahogany desk. “People in her position know what happens when they cross the radar of the Duca family. When her daughter walked out onto that floor and asked a multi-billionaire mafia boss to play daddy for the weekend, Hannah probably thought she was going to be fired, evicted, and dumped in the Hudson River before midnight.”
Lorenzo looked down at the red crayon heart. For my borrowed daddy so I won’t be the only one alone.
“She’s not getting fired,” Lorenzo said quietly.
Marco sighed, running a hand over his closely cropped gray hair. “Boss, listen to me. Tomorrow morning, Don Vittorio and Carmine Falcone are going to request an emergency sit-down. They are going to test this. They’ll send feelers, test the waters, try to figure out if you’ve gone soft or if you’re setting a trap. If you show up at a suburban elementary school on Saturday morning wearing a sweater and holding cotton candy, you will look like a domestic target.”
“Let them request their sit-down,” Lorenzo replied, his voice dropping into a cold, dangerous register. “I have nothing to discuss with them until Monday. As for Saturday... I gave my word.”
Marco stared at him for a long, silent moment. He had served Lorenzo through gang wars, federal indictments, and bloody corporate takeovers. He knew better than to argue when that particular tone entered his boss’s voice.
“Fine,” Marco muttered, turning toward the door. “I’ll arrange a discreet perimeter around St. Cecilia’s Elementary. Four tactical units in plainclothes, encrypted comms, and sniper overwatch on the surrounding rooftops. Just in case our friends decide to test your paternal instincts with a high-caliber rifle.”
“Keep it minimal, Marco,” Lorenzo said. “I don’t want the child frightened.”
May you like
Marco paused with his hand on the brass doorknob, shaking his head slightly. “You’re losing your mind, Lorenzo. A crayon heart is going to get us all killed.”
“Perhaps,” Lorenzo murmured, staring back at the paper. “Or perhaps it’s the only real thing in this house.”
