Chapter 3 - Blood on the Marble
The blood drained from my face so fast the room spun.
I instinctively stepped backward, away from the carved wooden crib, pulling Leo tighter against me. The plush mattress, the soft blue blankets, the carved wooden cherubs—it was all tainted by the sudden, violent realization that this beautiful sanctuary had been a slaughterhouse.
"You... you kept the crib?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum of the rain.
"The crib was custom-made in Florence," Luca said coldly, stepping into the nursery until he was standing just two feet away. "I tore out the floors. I tore out the walls. I replaced the windows with two-inch ballistic glass. But I do not run from ghosts, Miss Campbell. And I do not let the men who did it think they drove me out of my own home."
"He knows," I said, looking down at Leo’s sleeping face. "He was here, wasn't he? When it happened."
Luca’s jaw clenched so hard I heard the enamel grind. "He was in the room. He didn't see it—the nanny had him in the closet behind the paneling—but he heard the gunfire. He heard her scream."
A chill ran down my spine, sinking deep into my bones. The frantic clinginess, the terror of being put down, the panicked crying that sounded less like colic and more like a soul tearing in half—it all made sickening, heartbreaking sense. Leo wasn't just a difficult baby; he was a survivor of a massacre, trapped in a tiny body that couldn't process the nightmare.
"Come," Luca said, gesturing toward the adjoining door. "There’s a master suite connected to the nursery. You’re not sleeping on the floor, and God knows you can’t put him down."
I followed him into an immense bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed dressed in dark charcoal linens. A gas fireplace flickered quietly against a slate wall, casting dancing amber shadows across the room.
"Get in," Luca ordered, nodding toward the bed. "Sleep with him."
"Where will you be?"
"Right here," he said, pulling a heavy wingback leather chair to the side of the bed and sitting down. He reached beneath his armpit, unholstered his firearm with practiced ease, and set it on the nightstand beside a crystal decanter of amber liquor. "I don't sleep much anyway."
I hesitated for a moment, the sheer absurdity of the situation crashing down on me. I was in the inner sanctum of Philadelphia's most feared syndicate boss, holding his traumatized son, about to climb into a bed that probably cost more than my entire undergraduate education.
Carefully, kick off my scuffed restaurant flats, I climbed onto the mattress. I propped myself up against the mountain of pillows and laid Leo against my chest, pulling a cashmere throw blanket over both of us. Leo let out a tiny, contented sigh, his little fist relaxing against my collarbone.
Luca poured himself two fingers of scotch, his eyes never leaving us.
"You're not what I expected," he said quietly, swirling the liquid in his glass.
"What did you expect? A terrified girl who would drop your son and run?"
"Most people run from me," he replied simply. "Even the brave ones."
"I'm not brave, Mr. Moretti. I'm just tired. And I know what it feels like to lose the only person who makes you feel safe."
Luca leaned his head back against the leather, his piercing gaze cutting through the amber gloom. "Your parents?"
"My dad left before I was born. My mom died of cancer when I was nineteen. I spent eight years working three jobs to keep my little brother in school and our heads above water." I looked down at Leo’s peaceful face. "Pain is pain. It doesn't care if you live in a rowhouse or a fortress."
Luca fell silent. The ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner filled the room. Minutes bled into an hour. Leo’s breathing remained slow, heavy, and unbroken. For the first time in over a month, the Moretti heir was resting.
My eyelids began to droop, heavy with exhaustion. The steady warmth of the baby, the crackle of the fire, the rhythm of the rain outside... my guard began to slip.
Then, the world shattered.
*Crack-crack-crack!*
The sharp, concussive whip of suppressed gunfire echoed from the floor below, instantly followed by the deep, muffled thump of a body hitting marble.
Before I could even scream, Luca was on his feet.
The transformation was terrifying. In a fraction of a second, the brooding, exhausted father vanished, replaced by an apex predator of pure, lethal efficiency. He snatched the handgun from the nightstand, racked the slide with a brutal, metallic snap, and lunged across the room.
"Stay down!" Luca hissed, his voice vibrating with absolute command.
He hit the wall beside the heavy mahogany door, his body flat against the plaster, weapon raised at eye level.
Downstairs, a burst of automatic fire tore through the silence, followed by the roar of Marco’s voice shouting orders in rapid Italian. Glass shattered somewhere in the courtyard. The house’s silent alarm suddenly tripped, bathing the room in a dull, pulsing crimson emergency light.
Leo woke instantly, shrieking in sheer terror, his tiny hands clawing frantically at my chest.
"Luca!" I cried, scrambling off the bed, clutching the baby to my chest, retreating toward the furthest corner of the room behind a massive armoire.
The door to the corridor burst open.
A man in black tactical gear, his face covered by a ballistic mask, lunged through the threshold, raising an MP5 submachine gun toward the bed.
He never got the chance to pull the trigger.
Luca stepped out from the blind spot behind the door. Two deafening shots—*BANG! BANG!*—tore through the bedroom.
The intruder's head snapped back violently. Blood and bone sprayed across the antique wallpaper, and the man collapsed onto the floorboards like a sack of wet cement, his weapon clattering across the hardwood.
I screamed, pressing Leo’s head against my neck, shielding his eyes, my own body trembling uncontrollably as the smell of burnt gunpowder and fresh, hot copper flooded the air.
Luca didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He stepped over the twitching body, his weapon sweeping the empty hallway outside.
"Marco!" Luca bellowed into the corridor.
"Clear! Second floor clear!" Marco’s voice echoed back, accompanied by heavy boots sprinting up the stairs. "Two intruders neutralized in the foyer. They breached the garden wall!"
Luca lowered his weapon slightly, his chest rising and falling with controlled, mechanical breaths. He turned around slowly.
His suit was spattered with dark crimson drops. His eyes were wild, black with adrenaline, looking like the devil himself dragged straight out of hell.
Then his eyes found me.
I was huddled on the floor behind the furniture, hyperventilating, tears streaming down my cheeks, holding Leo so tight our ribs were practically fused together. The baby was sobbing, but he wasn't looking at the dead man on the floor. He was looking at me, his tiny fingers buried in my shirt, anchoring himself to the only peace he knew.
Luca stared at us—at the waitress he had bought for fifty grand, and the son who had refused to let her go.
He walked over slowly, towering above us like a dark angel, the smoking gun hanging loosely by his side.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his voice thick with an intensity that rattled my teeth.
"No," I choked out, my voice cracking. "No. We're okay."
Luca dropped to one knee, ignoring the pool of blood spreading across the rug ten feet away. He reached out, his bare hand—shaking with a sudden, violent tremor—hovering over Leo’s head before resting gently against my jaw.
His thumb wiped a tear from my cheek. His touch was burning hot against my freezing skin.
"They came for him," Luca whispered, his voice deadly, ancient, and terrifyingly cold. "They will always come for him."
He looked into my eyes, and I saw the trap snap shut around my life.
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"You can't leave, Avery," he said, sealing my fate with a single sentence. "You're the only shield he has left. And as long as you're in this house, you belong to me."
***
