Chapter 2 - The Table of Shadows
By 8:00 a.m. the following morning, the estate was bathed in a cold, slate-gray autumn fog.
The Moretti compound sat high on a cliff overlooking the Hudson River, surrounded by twelve-foot stone walls topped with wrought-iron spikes and high-definition security cameras. From the outside, it looked like a grand historic manor; from the inside, it was a fortified bunker.
I led Maisie and Rosie down the grand marble staircase toward the main dining room. For the first time since I had arrived, both four-year-old girls were dressed in bright yellow raincoats instead of the muted gray dresses Mrs. Gable usually insisted upon. Maisie held my left thumb tightly, while Rosie clutched her worn velvet teddy bear in her right hand.
As we reached the heavy double doors of the dining room, two suit-clad security guards—men with broad shoulders and visible sidearms—bowed their heads respectfully to the girls before opening the doors.
Inside, Vincent was sitting at the head of an immaculate twenty-foot mahogany dining table, reading through a stack of leather-bound financial dossiers. A crystal carafe of dark coffee sat at his elbow.
When the girls walked in, his head snapped up.
"Good morning, Papa," Maisie chirped softly, her voice small, rusty, but clear as a bell.
Vincent froze. The silver fountain pen in his hand slipped onto the mahogany table, leaving a tiny blot of blue ink on the paper. His eyes widened slightly as he looked at his daughter. It was the first word either of the twins had spoken directly to him in six months.
"Maisie..." Vincent whispered, his voice trembling ever so slightly.
Rosie scampered forward, her tiny yellow boots squeaking against the polished hardwood floor. She climbed onto the chair directly to Vincent's left without waiting for help, pointing her small finger at the pastry tray in the center of the table. "Croissant, please!"
A profound silence washed over the dining room. Standing near the sideboard, Mrs. Gable dropped her silver serving tongs onto a china plate with a sharp clatter. The two guards near the door exchanged stunned, wide-eyed glances.
Vincent didn't care about the staff's reaction. He reached out, his big, calloused hand remarkably gentle as he passed the pastry tray to his youngest daughter. His dark eyes shifted toward me, standing near the doorway, and the unspoken gratitude burning in his gaze was so intense it made my cheeks flush warm.
"Sit, Elise," Vincent commanded softly, gesturing to the chair at his right hand—a seat traditionally reserved for the lady of the house.
I hesitated for a second, fully aware of the weight of that gesture. But seeing the girls happily munching on their pastries, I walked over and took the seat.
"The girls are responding well to routine changes," I explained quietly as a butler poured my coffee. "They spent too long trapped in a house that felt like a museum of their loss. They need color, noise, and light."
"Then you shall give them whatever they ask for," Vincent said, leaning back in his leather chair. "If they want the walls repainted pink, bring in the painters. If they want a playground in the courtyard, have it built by Friday."
Before I could reply, the heavy double doors were pushed open without a knock.
A tall, sharp-featured man with slicked-back dark hair and a tailored pinstripe suit strode into the room. It was Dante Falcone—Vincent's second-in-command and the chief captain of the Moretti syndicate's logistics network. Beside him was a hulking enforcer with a scarred face named Frank.
"Vincent, we have a situation at Pier 42," Dante said without greeting anyone, his voice laced with urgent tension. "The federal agents are sniffing around the shipping containers from Naples. And rumor has it that the Moretti council members are demanding a meeting tonight. They think you've grown... distracted."
Dante’s cold eyes flicked toward me, then down to the girls sitting at the table, his upper lip curling into a subtle sneer.
Vincent’s entire posture changed in a fraction of a second. The tender father vanished, replaced by the ruthless criminal lord whose name struck terror across the state. He picked up his pen, casually capping it, though the air in the room suddenly grew dangerously thin.
"Dante," Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You are speaking about family business in front of my children and their nanny."
"Vincent, this is about our survival—" Dante started, stepping closer.
Vincent slammed his palm onto the mahogany table with the sudden force of a thunderclap. The fine china rattled. The guards at the door instantly snapped to attention, their hands moving to their holsters.
"You do not raise your voice in this room, Dante," Vincent hissed, standing up to his full, imposing height. "If the council wants a meeting, tell them I will see them at midnight at the foundry. As for Pier 42, handle it yourself, or I will find a captain who can."
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Dante jaw clenched tightly. He stared at Vincent for a long, tense moment before bowing his head curtly. "Understood, Boss."
As Dante turned to leave, his eyes caught mine again. There was a dark, venomous warning in his look—a clear signal that my sudden influence over Vincent Moretti had made me a target in their blood-soaked world.
