Chapter 2 - The Summons
The following afternoon, the rear entrance of Clara’s apartment building smelled of fried onions and stale bleach. The radiator in her hallway hissed like an angry snake. Clara stood at the sink, trying to scrub marinara sauce out of her spare apron, when two sharp knocks struck her door.
Not the landlord. Mr. Henderson pounded with a flat palm.
These knocks were measured, heavy, and metallic.
Clara wiped her hands on a dishtowel and checked through the peephole. Dante Russo filled the frame. In the dim hallway light, the bandage on his right thumb stood out stark white against his charcoal overcoat.
She unlocked the deadbolt and kept the chain engaged. “Yes?”
“Miss Vance,” Dante said politely, dipping his head. “Mr. Moretti would like to speak with you.”
“I’m off shift until four.”
“You’re off shift entirely today. Mr. Bellini gave you the weekend.” Dante offered a thin, professional smile. “Paid.”
Clara’s stomach dipped. “Am I fired?”
“If you were fired, I wouldn’t be the one standing here in a three-thousand-dollar suit. Open the door, please. The neighbors are starting to look through their keyholes.”
Clara unlatched the chain and pulled the door open. Dante didn't force his way inside; he simply stood on the threshold, holding out a sleek, unmarked black envelope.
“There’s a town car idling at the curb,” he said. “He’s waiting at the house in Dyker Heights.”
“I haven't agreed to go anywhere.”
“Miss Vance, Leo hasn't slept more than forty minutes since yesterday evening. When he woke up at noon, the first thing he said was your name. Or rather, *‘Claw-ra.’*” Dante’s expression softened, just for a second, betraying the human being beneath the muscle. “The boss doesn't ask twice. But today, he’s asking.”
Clara glanced back at her tiny living room. A pile of past-due utility notices sat on the counter beside a half-eaten sleeve of crackers. Her brother Evan was at college upstate, his tuition grant falling short by eight hundred dollars every semester.
She took the envelope. “Give me ten minutes to change.”
“Take fifteen,” Dante said. “The heater in the car works.”
Forty minutes later, the black sedan slipped through wrought-iron gates in Dyker Heights. The Moretti estate sat behind brick perimeter walls topped with discreet security cameras and iron spikes. It wasn't a gaudy mansion; it was older, built of dark stone, flanked by tall pine trees that kept the lawn in perpetual shadow. It looked like a fortress pretending to be a home.
Inside, the foyer was dead quiet. No radio. No television. Only the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock.
“In the study,” Dante said, gesturing down a long hallway paneled in mahogany.
Clara walked in. The room smelled of pipe tobacco, leather, and fresh espresso. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three walls, while tall French doors led out to a damp courtyard. Rico Moretti stood by the glass, looking out. He wore no jacket today, just a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing dark hair and a thin, jagged scar that ran from his wrist toward his elbow.
“Sit,” he said without turning around.
Clara did not sit. She stayed near the door, her hands folded in front of her dark wool trousers. “I prefer to stand, Mr. Moretti.”
Rico turned slowly. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He looked like a man who hadn't slept a full night in six months.
“You told me yesterday that I didn't know how to handle my son.”
“I said he needed space.”
“In front of forty patrons.”
“They were looking at him like he was a monster,” Clara said without flinching. “He isn't. He's three.”
Rico walked to his desk. He picked up a silver pen, turned it over in his fingers, and laid it back down. “I have hired four different nannies since Elena died. One had a doctorate in childhood development from Columbia. Another had twenty years of private service with families on the Upper East Side. One quit after three days. Leo threw a heavy brass paperweight at the second. The third walked out after he locked himself in a closet for nine hours and screamed until he threw up.”
“Trauma isn't a problem you can throw credentials at,” Clara murmured.
Rico’s gaze sharpened, cutting into her. “And what do you know about trauma, Miss Vance? Your file says you grew up in Flatbush. Father abandoned the family when you were nine. Mother died of lymphoma when you were twenty-one. You dropped out of Brooklyn College to pay off medical debt and support your brother. You work thirty-six hours a week at my restaurant and sixteen hours at a laundromat on weekends.”
Clara felt the heat rise up her neck. “You ran a background check on me?”
“I run a background check on everyone who steps within fifty feet of my family. The fact that you’re standing in this room means you passed. It also means you need money.”
He opened a leather portfolio on his desk, turned it toward her, and slid a contract across the polished wood.
“Full-time live-in companion for Leo,” Rico said. “You’ll have your own suite in the east wing. A dedicated driver if you take him off the grounds. Private security twenty-four hours a day. The salary is ten thousand dollars a month. Clean. Direct deposit or cash, your choice. If you stay six months and Leo is stable, I will clear every cent of your brother’s undergraduate tuition.”
Clara’s breath caught in her throat. The numbers made her dizzy. It was more money than she had ever seen in her life—more than her mother had earned in three years of retail work.
“What’s the catch?” she whispered.
“The catch,” Rico said, taking two steps toward her until she could smell his cedar-and-clove cologne, “is that you do not leave when it gets difficult. You do not scold him when he breaks things. You keep him calm. You get him to eat. And you never speak a word of what you see or hear inside these walls to anyone outside them.”
“And what if I say no?”
Rico paused. His jaw worked, a muscle leaping beneath his dark stubble. For a second, the mob boss vanished, leaving behind the hollowed-out ghost of a grieving husband.
“Then Dante drives you home,” Rico said quietly. “You keep your job at the restaurant. And I keep watching my son disappear into the dark.”
Before Clara could answer, a small thud echoed from the hall.
The heavy mahogany door creaked open an inch. Through the gap, a pair of wide, frightened brown eyes peered in. Leo was wearing oversized dinosaur pajamas, clutching a faded blue blanket to his chest. He looked at Rico, then his gaze slid to Clara.
His chin trembled. “Claw-ra?”
Clara dropped to one knee immediately, keeping her distance, just as she had the night before. She didn't hold out her arms. She just tilted her head and smiled softly.
“Hi, Leo. Did you find your warm milk today?”
The little boy didn't hesitate. He padded across the oriental rug in his bare feet, completely bypassing his father, and pressed his forehead against Clara’s shoulder.
Clara looked up over the child’s head at Rico Moretti. His eyes were dark, haunted, and fixed entirely on the small hand gripping the fabric of her sweater.
“I’ll need Sunday mornings off to call my brother,” Clara said.
May you like
Rico nodded once, his throat moving as he swallowed. “Agreed.”
***
