Chapter 8 - The Return to the Upper East Side
The armored convoy tore through the dark, rain-slicked streets of Manhattan, running red lights with sirens blaring, escorted by three unmarked black SUVs.
Inside the rear cabin of the lead Suburban, Anna sat sandwiched between Dominic and Eleanor. She was wrapped in Dominic’s heavy cashmere coat, sipping warm tea from a thermos Victor had handed her.
She looked at the leather seats, the glowing digital screens, the armed men sitting in the front seats, and then up at Dominic.
“Are we rich now?” Anna asked innocently.
Dominic offered a soft, quiet smile, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her crescent scar. “I wasn't rich until two hours ago, Anna. Now I’m the richest man in the world.”
Eleanor sat quietly by the window, watching the bright lights of Manhattan streak past in the rain. She looked down at her worn coat, her swollen hands, feeling entirely out of place in the opulent vehicle.
Dominic noticed her discomfort. He reached across the seat, placing his hand over hers. “You’re never going back to that apartment, Eleanor. You’re coming with us. You will have your own wing in my home, the best doctors in the state for your knees, and a seat at my table for every meal for the rest of your life.”
Eleanor wiped a tear from her eye, looking at the little girl she had raised in the shadows. “I just want her to be safe, Mr. Moretti.”
“Call me Dominic,” he said softly. “And under my roof, no one will ever touch either of you again.”
Twenty minutes later, the heavy iron gates of the Moretti estate on 72nd Street swung open, allowing the convoy to roll into the courtyard.
The estate was an impenetrable fortress—a stone mansion built in the 1920s, surrounded by high walls, security cameras, and thirty heavily armed guards who stood at absolute attention as Dominic stepped out of the vehicle carrying Anna in his arms.
They walked up the sweeping grand staircase into the warm, chandelier-lit foyer.
Standing at the top of the stairs were the domestic staff, tears streaming down their faces. They remembered the little girl in the yellow dress who had vanished three years ago.
Dominic carried Anna down the long, carpeted hallway to the second floor, stopping before a heavy mahogany door. He pulled it open, clicking on the soft wall sconces.
The room was pristine. It had been cleaned every single day for three years, preserved exactly as it had been the night she disappeared. A canopy bed draped in soft pink silk, shelves lined with plush animals, a small wooden drawing desk near the window, and framed pictures of her mother, Claire, hanging on the wall.
Anna gasped softly, stepping down from Dominic’s arms. She walked slowly into the room, touching the edge of the pink bedspread, then picked up a small wooden music box sitting on the nightstand. She turned the key.
A soft, familiar lullaby began to play—the exact same music box her mother had played for her every night before bed.
May you like
Anna turned around, tears shining in her eyes as she looked at Dominic standing in the doorway. “I remember this room,” she whispered. “I remember the music.”
Dominic dropped to his knees in the doorway, his heart soaring as the last dark pieces of his broken soul stitched themselves back together. “Welcome home, my sweet Anna.”
