Chapter 4 - The Art of HealingMorning sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the breakfast nook overlooking the bay.
Clara sat at the long marble table nursing a cup of black coffee, still wearing her clothes from the night before, though Alva had provided a fresh cardigan. Across from her sat Leo.
The transformation from the screaming, terrified toddler of the previous night was astonishing. Leo was quietly eating a bowl of sliced strawberries and scrambled eggs, occasionally glancing up at Clara with wide, curious eyes.
"More milk?" Clara asked, pointing to his glass.
Leo nodded shyly. "Please."
Alva, standing nearby with a coffee pot, nearly dropped it. She looked at Rico, who had just walked into the room wearing a charcoal turtleneck and dark slacks, reading a tablet.
"He spoke," Alva whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "In a full sentence. To someone other than his father. Not once in six months."
Rico lowered the tablet. He looked at Leo, then at Clara. A strange, unreadable expression crossed his face—something raw and vulnerable that he quickly masked behind his usual stoic facade.
"He likes you," Rico stated simply, pulling out the chair next to Leo and sitting down.
"Kids usually like people who don't treat them like ticking time bombs," Clara retorted, cutting a piece of toast.
"My sister tried everything," Rico said, stirring sugar into his espresso. "Therapists, behavioral specialists, toys from FAO Schwarz, trips to Disney. Nothing worked. He lived in a state of permanent hyper-vigilance. Every time a door slammed, he thought... well, he thought about the car."
Clara felt a sudden pang of deep empathy. The cold, ruthless mafia boss suddenly looked like a shattered father who would burn the city to the ground if it meant keeping his son safe.
"He needs routine, Mr. Moretti," Clara said gently. "And he needs to know that when things get loud, he isn't going to be abandoned. Throwing money or therapists at grief doesn't work when you're three years old. You just need to feel safe."
Before Rico could answer, Dante rushed into the breakfast nook, looking paler than usual.
"Boss," Dante said, ignoring Clara’s presence. "We have a major problem. The federal task force—the organized crime unit downtown—just executed a search warrant on our primary logistics warehouse in Red Hook."
Rico stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the marble. "On whose authority?"
"Judge Harrison's," Dante said grimly. "And the affidavit used to secure the warrant... it lists internal financial approvals that only someone with master-level administrative credentials could forge."
Rico’s head snapped toward Clara, then back to Dante.
"That's impossible," Rico snarled. "Only three people have master credentials. Me, Dante, and..."
May you like
He stopped. The color drained from his face as the realization hit him like a physical blow.
"My brother-in-law," Rico whispered. "Marcus."
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