Chapter 1 - The Laughter of a Shadow
Alessandro Moretti did not laugh.
It was a rule, unwritten but absolute, maintained across thirty-two years of life and three decades of survival inside the most dangerous criminal family on the East Coast. Laughter was a weakness. Laughter meant your guard was down. Laughter told the men in the room that you were human, and in Alessandro’s line of work, humanity was the blood in the water that drew the sharks.
Yet standing before the dark-framed antique mirror in the hallway of his six-story Fifth Avenue fortress, looking at a bright blue butterfly lopsidedly spread across his forehead, a yellow flower on his cheek, and orange sunshine freckles dotting his jawline, Alessandro’s shoulders shook.
A low, rumbling sound emerged from his chest. It was rusty, awkward from disuse, but unmistakable.
He was laughing.
Sophia Delgado pressed her back against the cool plaster of the corridor wall, her heart hammering violently against her ribs. Her hands were still trembling, stained faintly with the dark Earl Grey tea she had spilled in her panic downstairs. Her mind was racing through every horrific scenario her neighborhood in Queens had taught her about men like Alessandro Moretti. They were quiet. They were polite right up until the moment they made you disappear.
"Sir," Sophia whispered, her voice cracking. She stepped between Alessandro and her daughter, shielding three-year-old Emma behind her denim skirt. "Please. She’s just a baby. She didn't know who you were. She thought... she thought you were just tired. I will pack our things right now. You’ll never see us again. I’ll pay for the mirror, for the dry cleaning, for—"
Alessandro held up a single, long-fingered hand. The laughter died down, replaced by a deep, resonant silence, but his eyes—dark, usually cold as winter iron—were softer than anyone in this house had seen them in a decade.
He slowly knelt on the marble floor. The movement was deliberate, unhurried, despite the custom-tailored trousers dragging against the stone. At eye level with Emma, he looked at the little girl wearing a bright yellow raincoat indoors.
"Why blue for the butterfly?" Alessandro asked. His voice was deep, gravelly from sleep and cigars, but surprisingly gentle.
Emma peeked around her mother’s skirt, her thumb resting near her mouth. "Because blue flies higher," she said with absolute three-year-old certainty. "Red ones stay on the grass. Blue ones go up to the clouds."
Alessandro looked at the girl for a long moment. Then, slowly, he raised his index finger and touched the blue paint on his forehead, looking at the smudge on his skin. "I see. And the sun on my chin?"
"So you don't frown," Emma explained, taking a tiny step forward, entirely unbothered by the heavy atmosphere of the house. "Mama says when you frown, your mouth turns into a dark cave. Sun keeps the light on."
Behind them, Vincent Romano stood in the shadows near the marble column. The old consigliere’s face was unreadable, but his knuckles were white where he held his gold-pocket watch. In forty years of serving the Moretti empire—first Alessandro’s father, main boss Don Carmine, and now Alessandro—Vincent had never seen an outsider touch the Don. He had seen men executed for looking at Alessandro the wrong way during sit-downs.
"Sophia," Alessandro said, standing up smoothly. He wiped his face with a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, though the water-based paint only smeared, turning his jaw a strange shade of sunset orange.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti?" Sophia choked out, her posture rigid.
"Clean the tea in the parlor," Alessandro commanded quietly. "Then go to the kitchen. Tell the cook to prepare lunch. Three plates."
Sophia blinked, her jaw dropping slightly. "Three... three plates, sir?"
"You, the artist, and me," Alessandro said, turning back toward his private study. "And Vincent... get me a clean towel. And call the dry cleaner. I seem to have a yellow flower stuck to my collar."
As Alessandro walked down the hall, Vincent stepped out of the shadows. His dark eyes met Sophia’s terrified gaze.
"You should get her out of here, Sophia," Vincent murmured in a low, flat tone that made the hairs on Sophia’s arms stand up. "This house is not a place for children. Especially not today."
May you like
"What do you mean?" Sophia whispered, holding Emma closer. "Is he angry? Is he going to hurt us?"
"The Don is not angry," Vincent said, his voice dropping even lower, almost lost beneath the quiet ticking of the grandfather clock. "That is the problem. When Alessandro Moretti smiles, it usually means someone is about to die. Keep your child quiet, woman. The walls in this fortress have ears, and not all of them belong to people who like flowers."
