Chapter 2 - The Whispers in the Walls
Lunch was an uncomfortable affair of silver cutlery and thick linen napkins. Emma sat on a stack of leatherbound encyclopedias so she could reach the grand mahogany dining table, blithely eating cut-up chicken cutlets while Alessandro reviewed a stack of leather-bound ledgers beside his plate. Sophia barely touched her food, her hands resting nervously in her lap, watching every movement of the intimidating man at the head of the table.
"Your daughter has courage," Alessandro said suddenly, breaking the silence without looking up from his papers. "Or a complete lack of survival instinct. In my world, those two things are often mistaken for the same thing."
"She’s just curious, Mr. Moretti," Sophia said quickly, her eyes darting toward the heavy mahogany doors where two armed guards stood outside. "I promise it won't happen again. I’ll leave her with my sister starting tomorrow, even if I have to work night shifts to pay for it."
"No," Alessandro said flatly. He closed the ledger with a heavy thud that made the crystal wine glasses ring. "She stays. The house has been too quiet since my father died last year. It smells like old dust and bad news. A bit of yellow paint won't destroy the foundations."
He looked at Emma, who was currently using her fork to draw invisible shapes in her mashed potatoes.
"Tell me, Sophia," Alessandro continued, leaning back in his leather chair, his dark eyes fixing on her. "How long have you worked here?"
"Four months, sir. Since the estate manager hired me through the agency."
"And who recommended you to the agency?"
Sophia paused, surprised by the question. "My ex-husband’s cousin, Hector. He works at a shipping warehouse down by the docks in Brooklyn. He said the Moretti estate was looking for honest staff who didn't ask questions."
Alessandro’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. He didn't speak, but his fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic pattern against the table. Hector. Brooklyn docks. Red Hook. That was territory controlled by the Lucchese family—the Morettis' oldest and most bitter rivals.
Before Alessandro could pursue the thought, the grand double doors of the dining room swung open without a knock.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the room. He wore an expensive gray suit, a diamond pinky ring, and an expression of cold arrogance. This was Marco Moretti, Alessandro’s cousin and the head of the family's port operations. Behind him walked two men in heavy coats, their hands resting ominously inside their pockets.
"Alessandro," Marco said, his voice echoing in the vast room. "We have a problem at Pier 42. The Coast Guard seized a shipment of—"
Marco froze mid-sentence. His eyes drifted from Alessandro to Sophia, and finally down to Emma, who was staring up at him with wide, unblinking brown eyes.
"What is this?" Marco’s tone turned sharp, disgusted. "Since when does the Don run a day-care center in the middle of a war council? Who are these people?"
"Watch your tongue, Marco," Alessandro warned, his voice dropping an octave, instantly filling the room with a lethal tension. "You are in my house, at my table."
"Your house is supposed to be secure!" Marco snapped, taking a step closer to the table. "We have the FBI sitting outside the perimeter, the Lucchese family cutting into our supply lines in Queens, and you’re having tea with the maid and her brat?"
Emma suddenly set her fork down with a loud clack. She looked right at Marco’s scowling face.
"You have a mean face," Emma said loudly, her voice ringing clearly across the formal dining room. "Like the big gray dog that barked at the garbage man."
The room went dead silent. The two armed guards by the door looked down at the floor, fighting to keep their faces neutral.
Marco’s face flushed a deep, mottled red. "You little—"
"Enough!" Alessandro slammed his palm onto the table. The sound was like a gunshot. He stood up, towering over his cousin, his presence suffocatingly dominant. "Marco. My office. Now."
Marco glared at Sophia and Emma with pure hatred before turning on his heel and marching toward the private study. Alessandro lingered for a moment, looking at Sophia, who was trembling so hard she could barely hold her child’s hand.
"Vincent will take you upstairs to the living quarters," Alessandro told her softly. "Stay there until I come for you. Do not go into the West Wing."
"Mr. Moretti... is there danger?" Sophia asked, her voice barely a whisper.
May you like
Alessandro didn't answer right away. He adjusted his cufflinks, his dark eyes shifting toward the window where the gray afternoon light was fading into nightfall.
"There is always danger in this house, Sophia," he said softly. "The trick is knowing which snake is hiding under the rug, and which one is already around your neck."
