Chapter 6 - Blood on the Marble
The foyer looked like a war zone.
When Clara finally crept out of the guest suite and made her way downstairs, the pristine white marble floor was stained with dark, spreading pools of crimson. Two men in black tactical gear—Russian infiltrators—lay motionless near the grand staircase.
Standing in the center of the carnage was Ricardo Moretti.
His suit jacket was gone, his white shirt stained with dirt and gunpowder residue, his sleeves rolled up to reveal bloody knuckles. A deep, ugly gash ran along his left forearm, soaking his cuff in red.
Marcus and three other bodyguards were securing the perimeter, sweeping the corners of the massive room.
Rico didn't look like a businessman. He looked like an executioner who had just descended from the gates of hell.
When he heard footsteps on the stairs, his head snapped up instantly, his dark eyes locked in a lethal glare. But the moment he saw Clara standing on the landing, unhurt, the terrifying tension in his posture shattered into something raw and agonized.
“Clara,” Rico breathed, dropping his weapon onto a side table as he took three long strides up the stairs, grabbing her by the shoulders. His hands were warm, trembling slightly. “Are you hurt? Did they touch you?”
“I’m... I’m fine,” Clara stammered, her eyes darting over the blood on his arm. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing,” Rico snapped, his chest heaving as he pulled her closer, scanning her face with frantic desperation. “One of Marinov’s rats slipped through our outer detail. They thought they could hit me where it hurts while I was at the docks. They didn't know I turned back early.”
“Leo,” Clara gasped, panic spiking again. “Is Leo—”
“Leo is sleeping,” Rico interrupted, his voice softening as he gripped her tighter, as if needing physical proof that she was real and unharmed. “Marcus checked the nursery. They didn't even make it past the second-floor landing. But you... what were you doing out of your room?”
“I heard them,” Clara said simply, her voice shaking as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind a bone-deep chill. “I threw a paperweight to draw them away from the nursery. I couldn't let them near him.”
Rico went completely still.
The air rushed out of his lungs. He stared at Clara, his dark eyes reflecting the chandelier light, swimming with an emotion he had spent a lifetime burying. Fear. Gratitude. And something terrifyingly close to devotion.
“You risked your life to lead them away from my son,” Rico said, his voice dropping to a rough, broken whisper. “You didn't have to do that, Clara. You’re just a waitress from Brooklyn.”
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“I was a waitress,” Clara corrected softly, looking up into his tortured eyes. “Now... I live here.”
Rico didn't say another word. He simply pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. For the first time since the night in the restaurant, the mob boss didn't feel like an untouchable titan of New York underworld. He felt like a man who had finally found an anchor in the middle of a hurricane.
