Chapter 3 - Sunlight on the Marble
The morning sun broke over the estate at seven o’clock, casting long golden rectangles across the grand dining room table.
Dominic sat at the head of the table. A untouched cup of black coffee steamed in front of him. He hadn't gone back to sleep after three in the morning, but he hadn't walked the hallways either. He had sat in the leather armchair in his study, staring out the window, watching the dark sky turn to grey, and then to gold.
The double doors of the dining room opened, and his underboss, Frankie "The Hammer" Vane, walked in.
Frankie was forty-five, built like a brick wall, with a broken nose that had healed crooked twice and a sharp mind that made him Dominic’s most trusted advisor. He carried a leather folder under his arm and looked surprised to find Dominic sitting at the dining table instead of locked in his third-floor office.
“Boss,” Frankie said, taking a seat two chairs down. “You’re up early. Or did you never go down?”
“I stayed up,” Dominic said flatly, his fingers tracing the rim of his porcelain coffee cup. “What’s the report from the docks?”
Frankie opened the folder. “The union vote went our way. The unions in Brooklyn are secured for another two years. The Moretti shipping lines have full priority at Pier 42. Also, the Valenti family sent a representative yesterday. They want to open negotiations regarding the trucking routes through Jersey.”
Dominic nodded slowly, but his mind wasn't on the shipping lines or the Valenti family. He was listening to the sounds of the house.
From downstairs in the kitchen area, he could hear the faint clatter of pots and pans, accompanied by a small, high-pitched giggle.
Frankie paused, his sharp eyes flicking toward the dining room entrance. “What was that?”
“The maid’s daughter,” Dominic replied simply.
Frankie frowned, his brow furrowing. “Teresa’s kid? I thought she keeps the girl in the staff quarters during working hours. Do you want me to tell her to keep the kid quiet?”
“No,” Dominic said immediately. The sharp edge in his tone made Frankie freeze.
Dominic took a sip of his coffee. “Let her be.”
Frankie cleared his throat, sensing a shift he couldn't quite fathom. “Right. Sure, boss. Whatever you want. On another note... the anniversary is tomorrow.”
The air in the room instantly chilled. Frankie bit his lip, cursing himself silently for bringing it up, but it was a reality they faced every year. October 24th. The day Clara and the baby had died. For the past two years, Dominic had shut down the entire estate on the 24th. No meetings, no phone calls, no security guards inside the house. He would lock himself in the east wing with a bottle of scotch and remain there until the 25th, leaving the family’s operations completely on pause.
“The perimeter guards are already scheduled to fall back to the gatehouse tomorrow morning,” Frankie added cautiously. “I can handle the Valenti family meeting by myself if you’re... unavailable.”
Dominic stared into his dark coffee. The anniversary had always felt like a tidal wave crashing over his head, dragging him down into the dark depths where he couldn't breathe. But today, as he thought about the blue room upstairs, he realized something strange. The room was no longer completely dark. A small child had sat on its carpet and talked about a one-eared rabbit.
“Cancel the lockdown,” Dominic said quietly.
Frankie blinked, sure he had misheard. “Boss?”
“Tell the perimeter security to stay on their standard rotations,” Dominic instructed, raising his eyes to look at his underboss. “I am not locking the house down tomorrow.”
Frankie stared at Dominic for three full seconds. For three years, Dominic Moretti had been a ghost ruling an empire. But looking at him right now, Frankie saw something returning to his boss's eyes—a faint, steady ember of life.
“Understood, boss,” Frankie said softly. “I’ll update the guard schedules.”
Just then, the dining room door creaked open an inch. A small, dark-haired head poked around the frame. Big brown eyes scanned the large room until they landed straight on Dominic.
Mia slipped into the room, holding her one-eared rabbit tightly by its single ear. She was wearing a yellow dress today, her little red shoes making soft clicking sounds against the marble floor.
Frankie’s hand instinctively drifted toward his jacket out of pure muscle memory, but he caught himself, staring in absolute shock as the toddler walked straight past him, completely ignoring the terrifying underboss, and walked right up to Dominic’s chair.
“Hi, Mr. Boss,” Mia said, resting her chin on the armrest of his chair. “Mama is making pancakes. They're shaped like stars.”
Dominic looked down at her. The coldness that had defined his existence for three years melted just a tiny bit more.
“Star pancakes?” Dominic asked.
“Yes,” Mia nodded vigorously. “Do you want one? I told Mama you like stars.”
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Frankie looked between the innocent toddler and the ruthless mafia leader, his mouth slightly open in sheer disbelief. Dominic Moretti—the man who had personally executed seven rival captains in a single night—leaned down, picked up the three-year-old girl, and set her gently onto the chair next to his.
“I would love a star pancake, Mia,” Dominic said softly.
