Chapter 2 - The Shadow in the Tea Room
The east wing of the Moretti mansion was a place that had been shrouded in darkness and white dust sheets for three years. It was where Elena and Lily had lived. But that night, the lights were turned on, the sheets were pulled away, and the smell of fresh lavender linen filled the air.
Hannah sat on the edge of a massive king-sized bed in a suite larger than her entire Astoria apartment. Ellie was already fast asleep under a heavy goose-down duvet, her stuffed rabbit tucked tightly beneath her arm.
A knock sounded at the door, and Dominic stepped inside carrying a warm tray loaded with fresh chicken soup, fruit, and hot tea.
"Mr. Moretti asked me to bring this up," Dominic said, setting the tray on a bedside table. "Dr. Greene’s medical courier just arrived. There are ten fresh EpiPens in the medical cabinet in your bathroom. All top-grade, heat-regulated, and fully certified."
Hannah looked at the tray, then at the towering guard. "Is... is Mr. Moretti really not going to call the police on me?"
Dominic offered a rare, sympathetic smile. "Mrs. Carter, if Adrian thought you were guilty, you wouldn't be sitting in a luxury suite eating chicken soup. You’d be at the bottom of the East River. The Boss knows talent, and he knows loyalty. Your little girl did something tonight that no man in his syndicate had the guts or the clarity to do. She saved his life."
Meanwhile, deep in the basement beneath the mansion’s main office, Adrian sat in a dark monitoring room. The only light came from six high-definition screens displaying security feeds.
On the central monitor, the video from the second-floor hallway played on a loop.
At 4:12 PM, Hannah could be seen walking into the beverage room. At 4:14 PM, she left to fetch the chilled mineral water. For forty-eight seconds, the beverage room door was closed. At 4:15 PM, Vincent Bellini stepped out of the room, adjusting his white gloves.
Adrian pressed a button, pausing the frame. He zoomed in on Vincent’s face. The old butler, who had served the Moretti family for nineteen years, looked pale. His hand was tucked inside his jacket pocket.
"He was like a father to me after my own died," Adrian whispered into the empty room, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the desk.
The door to the monitoring room opened, and Dominic walked in, his expression dark.
"We checked Vincent’s private quarters," Dominic said quietly. "We found a encrypted satellite phone hidden inside an old antique clock. The last three outgoing calls were made to an unlisted number operating out of Brooklyn."
Adrian didn't need to ask who owned the number. Brooklyn was the territory of Sal Falcone—the rival boss who had ordered the hit on Adrian’s car three years ago, killing his wife and daughter. Falcone had been trying to dismantle the Moretti empire piece by piece ever since.
"Did Vincent confess?" Adrian asked, his voice deathly calm.
"We haven't picked him up yet," Dominic replied. "He thinks he succeeded. He’s currently in his staff apartment, packing a bag. He thinks the confusion over your medical emergency will give him time to slip out during the midnight shift change."
Adrian stood up slowly, buttoning his jacket. "Let him pack. I want to talk to him myself."
Ten minutes later, the door to Vincent’s cozy basement apartment slammed open. The old butler gasped, dropping a leather duffel bag onto his rug.
Adrian stepped into the room, flanked by Dominic and two armed guards. He walked over to the armchair, picked up a framed photograph of himself as a teenager standing beside Vincent at a family estate in Sicily, and examined it under the warm lamp.
"Nineteen years, Vincent," Adrian said softly. "I gave you a home. I made you a wealthy man. I trusted you with my life, my estate, and the memory of my family."
Vincent’s knees trembled. He collapsed onto his knees, tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. "Adrian... please... you don't understand..."
"Explain it to me then," Adrian said, turning to face him. "Because from where I'm standing, you put poison in a glass of Barolo and handed it to a young mother who had no idea she was carrying your execution order."
"They have my grandson!" Vincent wept, burying his face in his hands. "Sal Falcone’s men snatched little Nicky from his school in Queens two days ago! They sent me a video of him in a dark room! Falcone told me if I didn't eliminate you by midnight tonight, they would send me the boy’s fingers in a box!"
Adrian froze. The cold rage in his eyes flickered, replaced by a dark, dangerous understanding.
"Why didn't you come to me?" Adrian asked, his voice shaking with restrained fury. "Why didn't you tell me they had Nicky?"
"Because Falcone swore he had eyes inside this house!" Vincent cried. "He said if I made one wrong move, the boy would die! I was desperate, Adrian! I didn't want to kill you, but Nicky is only six years old! He's just a child!"
Adrian stared down at the weeping old man. He thought of Lily. He thought of the burning car. He thought of the terror of losing a child.
"Dominic," Adrian barked.
"Boss?"
"Cancel the execution order on Vincent." Adrian walked to the door, stopping on the threshold without looking back. "Lock him in the wine cellar under heavy guard. And get the strike team ready."
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"Where are we going, Boss?" Dominic asked.
Adrian’s dark eyes flashed with a lethal, terrifying fire. "We're going to Brooklyn to get Vincent's grandson back. And then I’m going to erase Sal Falcone from this city."
