Chapter 3 - The Blood on the Velvet
Three weeks passed in a strange, hypnotic rhythm.
Mia was moved to a state-of-the-art private room at Columbia Presbyterian on a Tuesday morning. A team of three top nephrologists took over her care, switching her medication to an advanced experimental protocol that immediately stabilized her blood pressure and reduced her pain. For the first time in two years, my sister was color-blond and smiling, her room filled with fresh flowers delivered daily by an anonymous florist—though I knew the cardless white lilies came directly from Dante's estate logistics.
Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Sal picked me up at 1:00 PM.
At the estate, my sessions with Leo evolved. He no longer stayed hidden under the piano frame. By the third week, he sat on the far edge of the piano bench beside me. He didn't play full songs, but he had discovered that pressing the middle C key made a tone he liked. Whenever he pressed it, I would weave that single note into whatever melody I was playing, turning his single input into the anchor of a complete song.
Dante was almost always there. Sometimes he sat at a heavy mahogany desk near the back of the room, reviewing thick financial ledgers or reading documents on a tablet. Other times, he simply stood near the glass, watching us in silence.
I was learning to read the language of the Moretti household.
When Dante’s men wore dark suits with silver ties, it meant a routine business day. When they wore plain black coats and communicated through radio earpieces, it meant tension.
And when a man named Carlo—Dante’s underboss, a thick-set man with a silver beard and a scar that ran through his left eyebrow—arrived with dirt on his shoes at 2:00 PM on a Friday, it meant trouble.
I was in the middle of teaching Leo a light two-finger scale when the heavy double doors of the music room swung open without a knock.
Carlo stepped in. His coat was open, and his breathing was shallow. Behind him, two guards stood in the hallway, their faces pale and rigid.
Leo instantly stiffened, his hand darting to my sweater sleeve, pulling it so hard the wool stretched.
Dante didn't yell. He stood up from his desk with a calm, terrifying slowness. "Carlo. I am in a session with my son."
"Boss," Carlo said, his voice clipped, laced with an urgency that made the hair on my arms stand up. "It’s the Romano family. They just hit the storage facility in Brooklyn. Frankie and two of the boys... they didn't make it out."
The atmosphere in the massive, sunlit room shifted instantly. The warm air turned to ice.
Dante’s eyes flicked to Leo, then to me. I saw the muscles in his jaw tighten until the skin looked like it might snap.
"Take Leo to his room, Mrs. Gable," Dante commanded softly.
Mrs. Gable appeared from the side entrance as if she had been waiting. She extended her hand to Leo, but Leo didn't move. He dug his nails into my sweater, his breathing becoming fast, shallow, and ragged. The sudden influx of loud voices, harsh names, and heavy footsteps was plunging him directly into an overload.
"Leo, sweetheart," I whispered softly, lowering my head so I was at eye level with him, ignoring the men across the room. "The music isn't finished yet. We have three notes left."
I played three slow, heavy bass notes—low, grounding tones that vibrated through the wood of the bench beneath us.
Leo’s eyes locked onto my hands. His chest heaved once, twice, and then he let out a long, ragged exhale.
"Three," he murmured.
"Yes. Three," I said gently. "Now go with Mrs. Gable. I will be here when you wake up from your nap."
He let go of my sweater, stood up, and walked to Mrs. Gable without looking at his father or Carlo.
The moment the side door clicked shut behind them, Dante turned to Carlo. The restrained, quiet father vanished completely. In his place stood the Don—a man whose aura was so dark, so violent, that I felt an overwhelming urge to press myself back against the piano keys.
"How many?" Dante asked, his voice low, sharp as a razor.
"Six of theirs. Two of ours," Carlo spat. "Old man Romano says it’s payback for the port contract. He wants a sit-down at the warehouse tonight, or he says he’ll bring the fight to the North Shore."
Dante walked slowly across the room toward his desk. He reached into the top drawer and pulled out a heavy black leather shoulder holster containing a custom matte-black pistol. He slipped it over his shoulders with practiced, terrifying ease, adjusting the leather straps across his wide chest.
I sat frozen on the piano bench, my hands hovering over the keys, unable to move.
Dante looked at me. His expression was completely blank, but his dark amber eyes held a warning.
"Sal will drive you back to the hospital, Clara," Dante said, his voice flat. "Do not come to the estate on Monday. Stay at Columbia with your sister until I send for you."
I looked at the gun resting beneath his jacket. "Are you going to kill them?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it—foolish, naive, and completely out of place in a world built on blood.
Carlo let out a harsh, mocking bark of laughter. "Miss, this isn't a piano recital."
Dante didn't laugh. He stepped closer to the piano, stopping three feet away. The smell of his cologne—cedar, dark tobacco, and cold rain—mixed with the sharp metallic scent of gun oil.
"They brought violence into a place where my family operates," Dante said softly, staring directly into my eyes. "In my world, Clara, when someone tries to burn your house down, you don't negotiate with the fire. You destroy the wood."
May you like
He turned and walked out of the room, followed by Carlo and four armed guards.
I was left alone in the vast, silent room, listening to the roaring waves outside, holding my breath as the dark reality of the man I was working for settled over me like a shroud.
