Chapter 4 - Cracks in the Armor
Two weeks into her stay, the rain over New York became relentless. It drummed against the stone facade of the mansion, turning the gardens into thick grey mud and keeping Leo trapped indoors.
Trapped meant restless. Restless meant volatile.
At three in the morning, Clara was jolted awake by a terrible crash followed by a high, keening wail that tore through the quiet hallway. She threw on her robe and rushed bare-legged into Leo’s room.
A heavy lamp lay smashed on the floor. Leo stood on his bed, his eyes wild and unseeing, thrashing against his blankets.
“No! Don't let the car stop! Don't stop!” he screamed, his voice cracking into hysterics. “The loud noise! The loud noise!”
Clara didn't hesitate. She stepped over the shattered brass base, ignoring the sharp shards on the floor, and reached the edge of the mattress. But before she could speak, another figure pushed past her.
Rico.
He was barefoot, wearing only black lounge trousers, his broad chest marked by two old bullet scars near his collarbone. He grabbed Leo by the shoulders, his face pale with raw panic.
“Leo! Leo, wake up! It’s over! It was a nightmare!” Rico shook the boy gently, his voice urgent, desperate. “Leo, look at me! It’s Daddy!”
The touch made Leo lose his mind completely. The boy shrieked, clawing at Rico’s chest, his fingernails leaving red welts across his father’s skin. “Get away! Get away!”
Rico froze, looking down at his son with an expression of such total, eviscerating helplessness that Clara felt her own chest ache.
“Mr. Moretti,” Clara said firmly. “Let him go.”
Rico’s head whipped toward her, his eyes bloodshot. “He’s hurting himself!”
“Let him go. Step back.”
“He is my son!”
“And you are triggering the memory!” Clara’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. “He remembers being held down after the gunfire! Let him go!”
Rico recoiled as if struck. He dropped his hands and stepped back toward the wall, breathing hard.
Clara sat on the edge of the bed, turning her back partially toward Leo so he didn't feel cornered. She didn't touch him. She began to hum. It was an old, simple Irish tune her mother used to hum during the long, terrifying thunderstorm nights when the power failed in their tiny apartment.
Leo’s screaming slowly descended into rough, shuddering gasps.
“It was loud,” Clara murmured, continuing the low rhythm. “The loud noise was very bad. But there is no loud noise here. Only the rain. Just the rain on the window.”
Leo fell forward against her back. His small, wet face pressed into the cotton of her robe. He sobbed until his breath caught in his throat, his small hands clutching the belt of her gown. Clara slowly reached around, gathering him into her lap, rocking him back and forth on the edge of the mattress.
“You're safe,” she whispered against his damp hair. “I’ve got you. Nobody is stopping the car. Nobody is making a noise.”
Across the dim room, Rico stood motionless against the wall. The shadows covered half his face, but Clara could see the tremor in his hands. He watched her rock his son for ten minutes in complete silence.
When Leo’s breathing finally evened out and his head grew heavy against Clara’s collarbone, she carefully laid him down, pulled the blue blanket up to his chin, and smoothed the dark hair from his forehead. He was asleep. Deeply, completely asleep.
Clara stood up and turned around.
Rico was still there. He hadn't moved an inch.
“Come outside,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Clara followed him out onto the broad, carpeted landing. The mansion was pitch-black save for the amber wall sconces. Rico leaned against the mahogany railing, his head bowed, his hands gripping the wood so hard his knuckles turned white.
“He hates me,” Rico said into the empty dark.
“He doesn't hate you.”
“He looks at me and remembers the day she died.” Rico’s voice cracked, a horrifying sound coming from a man who commanded hundreds of violent men. “I put them in that car, Clara. I told Elena it was safe. I told her the dispute was handled. She begged me to skip the gala. She said she had a bad feeling. I laughed at her. I kissed her forehead and told her nobody would dare touch a Moretti.”
A single tear tracked through the dark stubble on his cheek. He didn't wipe it away.
“She died shielding Leo under the passenger seat,” Rico whispered. “And when the doors opened and I pulled him out, my hands were covered in her blood. He saw it. He looked at my hands and he screamed. And he hasn't stopped screaming at me since.”
Clara felt the distance between them evaporate. She took two steps forward, closing the space that protocol demanded she keep. She didn't think about his empire, his guns, or his reputation. She saw only a man drowning in his own soul.
Without thinking, she reached out and placed her hand over his white-knuckled fingers on the railing.
His skin was freezing.
Rico stiffened at her touch, his head snapping up. But he didn't pull away. He stared at her hand on his, then slowly looked into her eyes.
“He doesn't hate you, Rico,” Clara said, using his first name for the first time. “He is terrified that if he loves you, you will disappear like she did. He pushes you away because losing you twice would kill him.”
Rico let out a ragged, shuddering breath. He turned his palm upward beneath hers, his long, calloused fingers closing around her smaller hand, holding on with the same desperate, clinging strength that Leo had shown in the restaurant.
“How do you know that?” he asked, his voice thick with unshed tears.
“Because when my mother got sick, I did the exact same thing to my brother,” Clara said softly. “I was angry at him for needing me. I was angry at her for dying. Grief is a wild animal. You have to stop wrestling it, or it will tear you apart.”
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They stood there in the quiet corridor, hand in hand, the storm lashing the glass above them. For the first time, Rico didn't look like a kingpin or a shadow. He looked like a man who had finally found an anchor.
***
