Chapter 3 - The Wolves at the Table
Dinner was served in a massive, cold dining room centered around a twenty-foot mahogany table.
Claire sat near the foot of the table. The three boys sat across from her, completely silent, picking at their roasted chicken and vegetables with their silver forks. The smugness from the balcony was entirely gone, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant quiet.
At the head of the table sat Adrian.
To his right sat a man who looked remarkably like him, but with colder, harder features and a sharp, jagged scar running from his right ear down into his crisp collar. Dominic Moretti.
Two heavily armed men in dark suits stood silently by the arched doorway, their arms folded across their chests.
"I told you to clear the docks by four, Adrian," Dominic said, his voice grating like stones grinding together as he cut into his rare steak. "The shipment from Marseille was delayed two hours because your port authority contacts were asking too many questions."
"The port authority has been handled, Dominic," Adrian replied smoothly, without looking up from his plate. "Eat your dinner."
"Handled?" Dominic sneered, tossing his cloth napkin onto the table. "You're getting soft, brother. Ever since Elena died, you spend half your time locked in this mausoleum trying to manage three feral brats, and the other half letting the Moretti shipping lines slide into the hands of the syndicate in Brooklyn."
The three boys flinched at the word brats. Julian dropped his fork; it hit his porcelain plate with a loud CLINK.
Dominic turned his cold, grey gaze onto the three boys. "Look at them. Six years old and they can't even hold a fork properly. You need to send them to the academy in Switzerland. Get them out of your hair so you can run this family properly."
"They are staying here," Adrian said, his tone dropping several degrees into dangerous, icy territory.
"They're a liability!" Dominic barked, slamming his palm against the table.
The dishes rattled. Leo squeezed his eyes shut, his little shoulders hunching up toward his ears.
Claire set her glass of water down with a loud, intentional snap against the mahogany.
Every eye at the table shifted to her.
"Mr. Moretti," Claire said, looking directly at Dominic, her voice dripping with calm, polite poison. "In polite society, we don't discuss adult business at a family dinner table. And we certainly don't refer to children as liabilities while they are trying to eat their peas."
Dominic stared at her as if a housefly had just addressed him in Italian. "Who the hell is this?"
"This is Claire Donovan," Adrian said, his amber eyes glittering with a strange, dark amusement. "The new nanny."
Dominic burst into a harsh, mocking laugh. "Another one? What is this, number seven? She won't last until sunrise, Adrian. Look at her—she looks like a high school teacher from Queens."
"I managed thirty six-year-olds at a hotel daycare center every day for three years, Mr. Moretti," Claire said, leaning her chin on her hands and smiling sweetly at Dominic. "And trust me, some of their parents were far less civilized than you. Yet, somehow, nobody had to be sent to Switzerland."
Dominic’s laughter cut off instantly. His face flushed a dark, angry purple. He leaned across the table toward her. "You have a big mouth for someone who earns an hourly wage."
"And you have terrible manners for someone sitting in a thirty-million-dollar house," Claire retorted smoothly.
The dining room went dead silent. The two bodyguards at the door exchanged a quick, nervous glance.
Adrian slowly set his fork down. He looked at Claire, then looked at his brother.
"Dominic," Adrian said softly. "Leave."
"What?!" Dominic spat, turning to his brother. "You're kicking me out because of a servant?!"
"I'm kicking you out because you're shouting at my table in front of my sons," Adrian said, his voice deathly calm, but carrying an unmistakable edge of lethal finality. "And because Miss Donovan is correct. Your manners are atrocious. Get out."
Dominic stared at Adrian for three long seconds, his jaw working furiously. Finally, he stood up, smoothing his jacket down with a violent jerk of his hands.
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"You're making a mistake, Adrian," Dominic growled, turning toward the door. "The Brooklyn syndicate isn't going to wait for your nanny to finish her forty-eight hours."
He swept out of the room, his bodyguards trailing close behind him.
