Chapter 4 - The Secrets of the Nursery
The West Wing nursery suite was larger than my entire apartment.
It consisted of a grand master bedroom with a king-sized bed covered in white Egyptian cotton, a private marble bathroom with a deep soaking tub, a balcony overlooking the crashing ocean waves below, and an adjoining nursery fitted with custom oak cribs, hundreds of hand-carved wooden toys, and walls painted with soft pastel sea creatures.
Mrs. Gable helped me lay Leo down in his crib.
The moment his back touched the mattress, his small eyebrows furrowed, and his little hands began searching the air blindly. I quickly sat on the chair beside the crib, placing my hand gently over his stomach.
His breathing instantly smoothed out, and he drifted back into a deep, peaceful sleep.
"It’s a miracle," Mrs. Gable whispered, standing beside me with her hands folded over her apron. "A genuine miracle."
"Why?" I asked softly, keeping my hand on the baby’s tummy. "What happened to his mother?"
Mrs. Gable sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to age her ten years. She looked toward the heavy oak door of the nursery, making sure we were alone, before leaning down slightly.
"Lady Sophia was a sweet girl," Mrs. Gable murmured. "Daughter of a diplomat from Rome. Vincenzo married her three years ago to unite the families. She was fragile, delicate... not built for this world."
"And the sniper?" I asked, my blood running cold.
"Six months ago," Mrs. Gable said, her eyes darkening. "They were attending a charity gala at the opera house. Vincenzo was holding Leo in the lobby. A red laser appeared on the Don’s chest. Sophia saw it first. She threw herself in front of him just as the shot was fired."
I gasped, my hand tightening slightly on Leo’s tummy. "She took the bullet for him?"
"She died instantly," Mrs. Gable nodded grimly. "In Vincenzo’s arms. Leo was covered in his mother's blood. The trauma... it broke something inside that little boy. He hasn't let a soul touch him since that night. He wouldn't eat. He wouldn't sleep unless Vincenzo held him, and the Don has a war to run. He was dying, Miss Mara. That baby was slowly fading away."
She looked at me, her eyes searching my face with intense curiosity.
"Until tonight," Mrs. Gable whispered. "Until you."
"I don't understand it," I said, tears pricking my eyes. "I’m nobody. I’m just a waitress."
"You are The Lark's daughter," Mrs. Gable corrected gently. "And in this house, nobody is just anything."
She walked over to a heavy mahogany wardrobe, opened the doors, and pointed inside. Rows of high-end silk pajamas, warm cashmere sweaters, tailored pants, and expensive shoes hung neatly inside—all brand new, all in my exact size.
"Your cat, Barnaby, is currently in the lower kitchen enjoying a bowl of fresh salmon," Mrs. Gable added with a faint smile. "Your clothes from your apartment have been brought up to the dressing room. Get some rest, child. You have a long day tomorrow."
"What happens tomorrow?" I asked.
"Tomorrow," Mrs. Gable said, stepping out into the hallway, "the Don’s sister, Lady Bianca, arrives from Milan. And she will not be pleased to find a waitress sleeping in the master suite."
The door clicked shut, locking automatically from the outside.
I was alone.
I sat in the quiet nursery for a long time, watching Leo’s little chest rise and fall. The ocean waves crashed against the cliffs outside, a deep, rhythmic thunder that echoed through the bulletproof glass.
I was exhausted. My feet ached from eight hours of serving tables, my neck was stiff, and my mind was spinning with images of dragons, snipers, and a mother I thought I knew.
I carefully removed my shoes, untied my grease-stained apron, and collapsed onto the soft armchair beside the crib. I rested my head on the armrest, keeping my fingers gently resting against Leo’s small hand.
Within minutes, the darkness pulled me under.
I was six years old again.
The basement apartment in Chicago smelled of damp wool and fried onions. Rain was pouring down the small street-level window, splashing against the dirt.
My mother was sitting at her sewing machine, her face illuminated by the harsh yellow bulb overhead. Her hands were moving with terrifying speed, guiding a piece of black silk under the needle.
Beside her on the table sat a leather bag filled with stacks of hundred-dollar bills, three silver passports, and a heavy black handgun.
“Mama?” I whimpered from my small cot in the corner. “Why are you crying?”
My mother stopped the machine. She turned around, her dark eyes wide and terrified. She rushed over to my bed, falling to her knees, grabbing my small hands in her shaking ones.
“Listen to me, Mara,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a panic that terrified me to my core. “If anything ever happens to me... if men with dragons on their skin ever find you... you run. You run until your legs break. Do you hear me?”
“Why, Mama?” I sobbed.
“Because I stole their future,” she whispered, kissing my forehead with icy lips. “And they will take yours to pay for it.”
I bolted upright in the chair, my heart hammering against my ribs, cold sweat dripping down my back.
The nursery was dark, save for the dim moonlight filtering through the sheer balcony curtains.
Leo was still fast asleep in his crib, breathing softly.
I sat up, rubbing my face with my trembling hands, trying to shake off the lingering ghost of my mother's voice.
Then I heard it.
A soft, metallic click from the balcony doors.
May you like
My body froze. Every muscle in my frame went rigid as ice.
The heavy glass balcony door slid open an inch, letting in the cold, wet ocean air—and the dark, towering shadow of a man stepping inside from the rain.
