Chapter 3 - THE MEMORY IN THE NURSERY
By three o'clock that afternoon, the rain had stopped, leaving a cold, pale sunlight filtering through the tall oak trees surrounding the estate.
In the nursery on the third floor, Elena stood near the wide window, carefully folding a stack of small yellow baby blankets.
Her mind was still reeling from the morning's conversation. Moving to the second floor meant larger quarters, a private bath, and a salary double what she had been earning. But it also meant stepping directly into the center of Alessandro Moretti’s private tragedy.
Across the room, Mia sat on the soft wool rug, carefully building a tower out of wooden alphabet blocks.
Fourteen-month-old Sophia sat opposite her, propped up against a plush pillow. For the first time in months, the baby was not crying. She was watching Mia with wide, curious brown eyes, occasionally reaching out a tiny chubby hand to knock over a single block, causing Mia to giggle softly.
A faint shadow crossed the doorway.
Elena turned quickly. Alessandro stood in the hall, out of sight of the children, watching through the open double doors. He was still wearing his suit, though his tie was loosened slightly at the collar.
Elena walked quietly over to the doorway, stepping out into the hall so as not to disturb the children.
"She ate all her lunch today, Mr. Moretti," Elena reported softly, keeping her voice low. "Four ounces of apple puree and a cup of warm milk. She... she seems very calm."
Alessandro did not look at Elena. His eyes were fixed on his daughter’s small face.
"She has Isabella’s eyes," Alessandro murmured. It was the first time Elena had ever heard him speak his deceased wife's name.
Elena looked at the powerful, dangerous man standing beside her. Up close, she could see the deep, grey circles under his eyes, the subtle tension in his broad shoulders that never truly relaxed.
"She looks like you, too, sir," Elena offered gently. "She has your jaw."
Alessandro’s mouth tightened into a hard, flat line. "She deserves a mother who survived."
The blunt, bitter weight of his words hung in the quiet hallway like cold iron.
"Mr. Moretti," Elena said softly, stepping closer. "May I ask you something?"
Alessandro turned his pale blue gaze toward her. "What?"
"Why don't you hold her?" Elena asked quietly.
She had been in the house for three months, and not once had she seen the master of the house carry his own child. He visited the nursery early in the morning and late at night, standing by the crib like a guard, but he never reached out to touch her.
Alessandro’s hand, resting against the doorframe, clenched so hard the skin across his knuckles turned bone-white.
"When I hold her," Alessandro said, his voice flat and lifeless, "I feel the weight of three bullets. I feel the blood on her clothes. I am the reason her mother is under six feet of dirt in St. Michael’s."
"That is not your fault, sir," Elena whispered, her heart aching for the sheer, suffocating grief radiating from him.
"In my world, Mrs. Rossi," Alessandro said coldly, "everything that happens to my family is my fault."
Before Elena could answer, a high-pitched cry erupted from inside the nursery.
Sophia had attempted to reach for a blue block, lost her balance, and tipped over onto her side. Though she was unhurt on the soft rug, the sudden loss of balance frightened her. She began to wail, her little face turning bright red.
Elena moved to step back into the room, but Alessandro moved faster.
It was a sudden, unconscious instinct. Hearing his daughter’s distress, Alessandro crossed the threshold in three long strides, dropping to his knees on the rug beside the baby.
"Sophia," he said, his voice laced with sudden, sharp panic.
He reached down to lift her.
The moment his large, calloused hands touched the baby’s waist, Sophia’s crying grew louder. She kicked her little legs frantically, sensing the intense, rigid fear radiating from the man holding her.
Alessandro froze. His hands began to tremble violently. The blood drained completely from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse. He looked at his own hands as if they were covered in fire.
"I can't," he choked out, his voice breaking. "I can't..."
Mia stepped forward smoothly.
Without a word, the three-year-old sat down right beside Alessandro’s knee. She reached out, took Sophia’s tiny hand, and gently patted the baby's tummy.
"It's okay, baby," Mia said softly, looking up at Alessandro with wide, innocent hazel eyes. "Big hands are safe."
Alessandro stared down at the small girl.
"Big hands are safe," Mia repeated firmly, nodding her head.
Slowly, agonizingly, the tremor in Alessandro’s fingers slowed. He did not pull his hands away. He kept them rested gently around Sophia’s waist.
Sophia’s crying subsided into small, shuddering hiccups. She looked up into Alessandro’s face, reached up with one tiny finger, and touched the sharp edge of his jawline.
May you like
Alessandro closed his eyes. A single, silent tear slipped down his cheek, disappearing into the dark stubble of his face.
Elena stood in the doorway, her hand pressed against her throat, watching a ruthless mafia don crumble into a father on a nursery floor.
