Chapter 3 - The Cold Kitchen
“Mommy!”
The small, high voice was barely more than a scratchy whisper, but it echoed through the silent dining room like a thunderclap.
Milo rushed out from the dark doorway, his small boots sliding on the floor as he dropped to his knees beside his mother, wrapping his arms around her neck.
Nadia sat up quickly, brushing her hair out of her eyes, ignoring her bruised elbow to hold her son tightly.
“I’m okay, baby,” Nadia whispered frantically, kissing his temple. “I’m okay, shh...”
Marco and Dominic stood up quickly from the table, looking uncomfortable as they adjusted their jackets and moved toward the doors to follow Gianni into the storm outside.
Salvatore did not look at his departing capos.
His eyes were locked on the boy kneeling on the stone floor.
He spoke.
The child who had been silent for two years had let out a single, terrified cry for his mother.
Salvatore rolled his wheelchair forward, the rubber wheels humming softly against the rug until he stopped right beside Nadia and Milo.
He looked down at them.
Nadia pulled Milo closer, trembling, expecting a reprimand for the broken tray and the child’s intrusion.
“Did he hurt you?” Salvatore asked.
His voice was not loud, but it held a quiet, terrifying weight.
Nadia looked up, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. “No, Mr. Ferraro. Just... just my elbow. It’s nothing.”
Salvatore reached down, his heavy hand extending into the space between them.
For a second, Nadia hesitated. Then she reached up, laying her rough, cold hand in his broad palm.
Salvatore pulled her up to her feet with steady, effortless strength.
He looked down at Milo, who was standing beside his mother, staring up at Salvatore with wide, protective eyes.
“You spoke,” Salvatore said quietly to the child.
Milo pressed his lips together, lowering his head, clutching his mother’s dress tightly.
“He hasn't made a sound since his father died,” Nadia said softly, her hand resting on her son’s curls. “Not when he fell and cut his knee, not on his birthday, not ever. He was so scared for me just now...”
Salvatore reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out the small wooden soldier Milo had left on his desk earlier that morning.
He extended his hand, holding the toy out to the boy.
Milo looked at the wooden soldier, then looked up at Salvatore’s pale face.
Slowly, cautious as a wild bird, Milo reached out his small hand and took the toy back.
“Thank you,” Milo whispered.
The word was tiny, raspy from two years of disuse, but clear as a bell in the quiet dining room.
Nadia let out a soft, choked gasp, covering her mouth with her hands as tears overflowed her eyes. She dropped to her knees again, hugging Milo, weeping tears of pure, overwhelming relief into his neck.
Salvatore watched the young mother and her child.
In his world, men spoke only when they wanted to demand money, command violence, or lie about loyalty.
This child had spoken only to protect the person he loved.
Salvatore reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean white silk handkerchief, extending it down to Nadia.
“Wipe your eyes, Nadia,” Salvatore said softly. “You work in the main house now. I don't want my staff crying in the hallways.”
Nadia took the handkerchief, looking up at him with deep, shining gratitude.
“Yes, Mr. Ferraro,” she murmured.
“And Nadia?”
May you like
“Sir?”
“Tell the kitchen to prepare three warm plates of stew,” Salvatore commanded, turning his wheelchair back toward his office door. “You and your son will eat dinner in my study tonight.”
