Chapter 4 - THE SECOND WISH
Three days passed.
The December rain turned into heavy, wet snow that covered the sprawling Long Island estate in a thick white blanket.
Dante had been banished from the main house. Vincent had reassigned his younger brother to oversee the syndicate’s cold-storage warehouses in New Jersey—a massive demotion that sent shockwaves through the family organization. Everyone knew Dante had fallen out of favor, though few understood why.
On Friday afternoon, Vincent walked through the grand conservatory on the West Wing.
The glass room was filled with rare orchids and tropical plants that Sofia had loved. Since her death, the conservatory had been neglected, its glass panels covered in grime, the heater barely functional.
Vincent stopped in his tracks.
Clara was kneeling beside a wooden planter, sweeping up dead leaves. Beside her, Ellie was bundled in a red winter coat, sitting on a wooden bench, attempting to draw a flower on a pad of paper with a red crayon.
The heater was humming warmly. The glass panels had been wiped clean, allowing the bright winter sunlight to pour into the room.
“Who cleaned the glass?” Vincent asked, his deep voice carrying through the plants.
Clara jumped slightly, standing up and dusting off her apron. “I did, Mr. Moretti. In my spare time. I noticed the sunlight wasn't reaching the orchids. Sofia... Sofia loved the orchids, didn't she?”
Vincent looked at the vibrant purple blossoms nearby. “She did. How did you know that?”
“Mrs. Gable told me,” Clara said softly. “I thought... if I took care of them, it might make the house feel less sad.”
Vincent stared at the flowers, a strange warmth loosening the tight knot that had resided in his chest for seven years.
Ellie put her crayon down and scrambled off the bench. She stomped her little boots over to Vincent, holding out her palm. In her hand lay the second gold coin.
“I have my second wish,” Ellie announced proudly.
Vincent crouched down before her, ignoring the snow dust on his polished shoes. “Tell me, Ellie.”
“I want a cake,” she said firmly. “A chocolate cake with pink frosting and sprinkles. For Mommy.”
Vincent blinked. “A cake for your mother? Is it her birthday?”
“No,” Ellie shook her head, her curls bouncing. “Mommy never gets cake. When it’s my birthday, she makes me a pancake with a candle. But nobody makes Mommy a cake. I want her to have one.”
Clara’s face flushed pink with embarrassment. “Ellie! You don't ask Mr. Moretti for cake!”
Vincent raised a hand to quiet Clara. He looked into the toddler’s big, innocent eyes. In a world full of men who demanded territories, millions of dollars, and violent vengeance, this little girl was using her precious wishes on chocolate cake for her mother.
“A chocolate cake with pink frosting,” Vincent repeated slowly. “And sprinkles?”
“Lots of sprinkles,” Ellie emphasized, holding her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
Vincent took the second coin from her hand, his heart pounding with an emotion he hadn't felt in nearly a decade.
“Wish granted,” Vincent said quietly. “We will bake it together.”
May you like
Clara gasped. “Mr. Moretti, you don't have to do that—”
“I haven't stepped foot in the kitchen to bake since Sofia died,” Vincent said, looking up at Clara, his dark eyes resolute. “I think it is time.”
