Chapter 3 - Secrets and Scars
The Moretti family estate in the hills outside the city was built like a fortress. Surrounded by ten-foot stone walls, monitored by thermal cameras, and guarded by sixty men who owed their lives to my family, it had always felt like an elaborate prison.
Tonight, however, the fortress smelled like pancakes.
I stood in the arched doorway of the kitchen, watching a scene that felt completely alien to my blood-soaked world. Julian, Leo, Noah, and Mateo were sitting on the granite island, their legs swinging rhythmically, devouring buttermilk pancakes that my grizzled, fifty-year-old Sicilian chef had scrambled to make at midnight.
"Mr. Chef!" Mateo cheered, waving a syrup-covered fork. "Can we put chocolate chips on the next one?"
"For you, little boss? I'll put whatever you want," Chef Antonio grumbled, though his eyes were twinkling behind his spectacles. In forty years of serving mafia royalty, he had never seen children in this house.
Clara stood by the bay window, holding a mug of herbal tea, her arms wrapped around herself defensively. She watched the boys with fierce vigilance, flinching whenever a guard walked past the terrace outside.
I walked over to her quietly, waving the guards out of the room. Antonio wiped his hands, gathered the boys, and ushered them toward the adjacent cinema room to watch cartoons.
"They're incredible," I murmured, watching the boys scamper off. "They have your warmth. And God help them, they have my stubborn jaw."
Clara didn't smile. She took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze fixed on the dark lawn outside. "This is a nightmare, Dominic. This estate, those men with submachine guns under their armpits... this is the exact life I fought for six years to keep them away from."
"Clara, look at me," I said gently.
She hesitated, then turned her head. The exhaustion on her face broke my heart. She had worked two jobs in Portland, running an antique restoration shop by day and balancing books at night, raising four rambunctious boys entirely on her own while I had been sitting in penthouses drinking scotch and feeling sorry for myself.
"I didn't abandon you," I said, reaching out to cup her cheek. She stiffened, but she didn't pull away. "My father showed me bank transfers. He had fabricated forged documents showing you accepted five million dollars to walk away and never contact me. He told me you said I was a monster and you wanted a normal life."
Clara's jaw dropped. "Five million dollars? Dominic, when your father’s enforcers showed up at my apartment, they tossed my belongings into the street and threw an envelope with three hundred dollars at my feet. They told me if I stayed in Boston, an 'accidental gas leak' would level my sister's house."
A sickening rage boiled in my gut. My father had orchestrated the entire tragedy, playing on my pride and her fear, all to ensure I married a blue-blood heiress like Sloane Barrett.
"He lied to both of us," I whispered, my thumb tracing the soft curve of her cheekbone. "He stole six years from us, Clara. Six years of watching them take their first steps. Six years of loving you."
Her eyes filled with fresh tears, her lips trembling. "Do you have any idea how hard it was? Going to ultrasound appointments alone? Seeing four heartbeats on that screen and knowing I couldn't call the only man who could protect them? Every time one of them got sick, every time Julian asked why he didn't have a dad to play catch with... I hated you, Dominic. I hated you because I still loved you."
"I know," I breathed, pulling her gently toward me. She resisted for half a second before collapsing against my chest. Her hands gripped my lapels, soaking my shirt with silent, racking sobs that had been held back for the better part of a decade.
I wrapped my arms around her, burying my face in her hair. For the first time in my thirty-seven years of existence, the emptiness inside my chest was gone. The ring in the trash, the broken alliance, the coming war—none of it mattered. My world was right here in my arms.
May you like
Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open. Marco stepped inside, his expression grim, holding a tactical radio.
"Dominic," Marco said, his voice flat. "Barrett made his move. He didn't go after the docks. He just hired a crew of ex-mercenaries from South Boston. They've compromised our outer perimeter gate on the south side. They're coming for the house."
