Chapter 22 - The Aristocratic Courtyard
The wrought-iron gates of St. Sebastian’s Academy opened into a grand cobblestone courtyard surrounded by imposing Gothic architecture, centuries-old elm trees, and a sea of imported German sedans. High-society parents in tailored wool overcoats and heirloom furs stood in exclusive clusters, sipping paper cups of artisanal coffee while their children gathered along the limestone steps. The morning air was thick with the hushed murmur of political gossip, trust-fund maneuvering, and inherited condescension. That murmur died an abrupt, unnatural death the moment our two black armored Suburbans glided through the arched entry gates.
The heavy vehicles pulled to a halt directly before the grand entrance, their dark-tinted ballistic glass reflecting the pale winter sun. Two security enforcers in discreet charcoal overcoats stepped out instantly, scanning the elevated walkways and perimeter balustrades before opening the rear passenger door for Elena and me.
As I stepped onto the cobblestones, extending a hand to help Elena down, the silence across the courtyard became suffocating. Elena looked radiant, her dark hair swept up in an elegant chignon, her emerald-cut wedding band and the heavy gold Moretti signet gleaming against the dark leather of her gloves. Behind us, stepping out in a crisp, disciplined single file, were Leo, Dante, Marco, and Mateo.
They didn't scramble or trip. They walked shoulder-to-shoulder, chin up, hands naturally resting by their sides, four identical miniature forces of nature moving with the calculated rhythm of a private guard. Four sets of sharp hazel eyes swept the surrounding crowd, taking note of every whispering mother, every glaring father, and every wide-eyed student staring back at them.
"Is that... Dominic Moretti?" a woman in an oatmeal-colored cashmere cape whispered just loud enough to carry across the damp courtyard. "Good heavens, the rumors were true. He actually brought four illegitimate heirs into the academy."
"Not illegitimate, Cynthia," another mother replied, pulling her daughter behind her coat. "The Globe reported the marriage was filed three months ago. He liquidated the Barrett maritime contracts to secure their seats. The board didn't have a choice."
Elena heard every word. Her posture didn't waver by a millimeter. She simply tightened her grip on my arm, leaning in slightly with a venomous little smile that made my chest swell with pride. "Look at them, Dominic. They look like pigeons staring down a hawk. I think Cynthia is going to swallow her pearls."
"Let her choke," I murmured back. "They’re staring because they know the future of their portfolios is walking into this building in matching knee-high socks."
Standing near the top of the grand limestone stairs, looking visibly pale against the cold morning wind, was Headmaster Alistair Vance—no relation to Elena, though he came from the withered, broke branch of Beacon Hill aristocracy that survived purely on social prestige. Next to him stood Sloane Barrett’s first cousin, Julian’s younger brother Gregory, holding the hand of his seven-year-old son, a smug-looking boy with slicked-back blonde hair and an oversized prep blazer.
Gregory Barrett’s jaw was clamped so tight his jawline looked like carved chalk. When our eyes met across the courtyard, the hatred between us was palpable. His father was facing thirty years in a federal penitentiary, his brother was behind bars, and the Barrett dynasty was bleeding millions daily—all because of the woman currently walking up the stairs on my arm.
"Mr. Moretti," Headmaster Vance stammered, stepping forward with an awkward, rehearsed bow of his head. "Mrs. Moretti. Welcome to St. Sebastian’s. We are... honored to welcome your young men to the primary academy."
"Thank you, Headmaster," Elena said, her voice smooth, cultured, and dripping with regal poise. "We expect the curriculum to challenge them. They tend to grow bored when the standards are mediocre."
Gregory Barrett took a deliberate step forward, his eyes narrowing into slits as he glared down at the four boys. "Boredom won't be their problem here, Mrs. Moretti. At St. Sebastian’s, bloodlines and decorum matter. A few million dollars from the docks might buy a library wing, but it doesn't change what’s bred in the gutter."
The entire courtyard went completely still. Even the pigeons along the Gothic eaves seemed to stop rustling.
Before I could reach inside my coat or signal Christian to step forward, Leo took half a step out from our formation. He tilted his head at that sharp fifteen-degree angle, shoved his left hand casually into his blazer pocket, and looked straight up into Gregory Barrett’s face.
"My father owns the deep-water permits that supply your family's heating oil, Mr. Barrett," Leo said with absolute, unhurried precision. "And according to the morning financial ledger on Bloomberg, Barrett Logistics dropped seven points at market opening. If I were you, I’d spend less time worrying about our gutter and more time checking your family’s credit line."
Dante, Marco, and Mateo didn't say a word. They simply crossed their arms simultaneously, staring down the grown man with identical, pitiless smirks.
Gregory Barrett turned bright scarlet, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating bass. Headmaster Vance coughed frantically into his silk handkerchief, desperate to avoid a public bloodbath.
"Well! Yes! Straight to Class 1-A, then!" Vance blurted out, frantically gesturing toward the towering bronze doors. "Right this way, young gentlemen!"
May you like
Elena squeezed my hand, her lips twitching with suppressed laughter as our boys led the march into the academy. "Dominic," she whispered, "remind me never to let Leo near the family checkbook. He’s more dangerous than your uncles."
"He’s your son, Elena," I chuckled, following them through the bronze gates. "And God help anyone who tries to teach him arithmetic."
