Chapter 5 - THE PRICE OF SILENCE
The south guest suite was larger than Clara’s entire apartment in South Boston.
A fire crackled in the limestone fireplace.
On the mahogany nightstand sat an antique brass telephone.
Clara dialed the direct line to the oncology floor with shaking fingers.
“Third floor, Nurse Higgins,” a familiar voice answered.
“Mary, it’s Clara.”
Clara gripped the receiver so hard her knuckles turned white.
“How is Mia?”
“Clara? Oh, thank goodness.”
The nurse lowered her voice to a hurried whisper.
“Your sister is sleeping peacefully.”
“Her fever broke an hour ago.”
“Thank God,” Clara breathed, closing her eyes.
“Clara... who are the men in suits standing outside room 304?”
The blood in Clara’s veins chilled.
“Are they... bothering anyone?”
“No,” Mary whispered.
“They brought coffee for the nurses’ station.”
“The tall one said he was from the Moretti foundation.”
“And Clara... the head administrator just came down with a signed draft.”
“What kind of draft?”
“Your sister’s entire surgical debt.”
The nurse’s breath sounded shaky over the line.
“All forty-eight thousand dollars.”
“Paid in full.”
“They booked the operating theater for her marrow harvest on Thursday.”
Clara’s heart stopped.
She stared into the dancing flames of the fireplace.
Forty-eight thousand dollars.
A number that had kept her awake for eight months.
A number that had hollowed out her cheeks and worn through the soles of her shoes.
Erased in forty minutes by a man who moved like a shadow through the city.
“Clara? Are you there?”
“I’m here, Mary,” Clara whispered.
“Tell Mia... tell her I love her.”
“Tell her I will see her as soon as I can.”
“She knows, sweetie. Get some sleep.”
The line clicked off.
Clara set the heavy brass receiver back in its cradle.
She buried her face in her hands.
A single tear slipped through her fingers, hot and bitter.
It wasn't a gift.
She knew men like Dante Moretti did not give gifts.
It was a chain.
A heavy, gilded chain that bound her to this house and to his broken little boy.
A soft tap sounded on the suite door.
Clara wiped her eyes quickly.
She pulled the thick cashmere robe Maria had provided tight around her chest.
“Come in.”
The heavy oak door swung open without a creak.
It was not Maria.
It was Dante.
He had changed into a charcoal sweater and dark trousers.
His hair was still damp from the rain.
He carried a leather portfolio under one arm and a mug of steaming tea in his hand.
He stepped inside, leaving the door six inches ajar.
A gesture of propriety that surprised her.
“Chamomile,” he said, setting the mug on the small table near the fire.
“Maria said you looked like you hadn't eaten since yesterday.”
Clara didn't touch the tea.
She looked him straight in the eye.
“You paid the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“Without asking me.”
“Would you have said yes?” Dante asked.
His dark eyes were impossible to read.
“I would have asked what you expected in return.”
“I already told you what I expect.”
Dante laid the leather portfolio on the table beside the tea.
“Tomorrow morning at ten, the five families of the Commission meet in the conservatory downstairs.”
Clara frowned.
“Why would they meet here?”
“Because Don Cavallo claims I orchestrated the shooting at Luca’s wedding.”
Dante’s voice grew icy.
“He claims I wanted to eliminate my cousin to consolidate the northern terminals.”
“Did you?” Clara asked bluntly.
Dante didn't flinch.
He looked at her with an intensity that made the small hairs on her arms stand up.
“If I wanted my cousin dead, Clara, he would not have died in a crowded ballroom where my son was standing.”
The logic was brutal, clean, and terrifyingly real.
“What does this have to do with me?” Clara asked.
“The Commission will demand evidence.”
“They will say the bullet in the piano was an accident.”
“They will demand to see Leo.”
Dante took a slow breath, his chest expanding under the dark wool.
“My uncle, Don Bernardo, believes Leo is unfit to inherit the Moretti name.”
“In our world, an unfit heir is a death sentence for the family.”
“They will try to force me to surrender custody of Leo to a private sanitarium in Switzerland.”
Horror seized Clara’s throat.
“A sanitarium? He’s eight years old!”
“He doesn't belong in an institution!”
“He belongs where he is safe!”
“They don't care about his safety,” Dante said softly.
“They care about the port leases.”
“If Leo is declared incompetent, Luca becomes my legal successor.”
“And Luca will hand the northern berths to Cavallo by Friday night.”
Clara stared at him.
The puzzle pieces snapped together with terrifying clarity.
The mocking boy in the ballroom.
The deliberate isolation of the rose pillar.
The sniper round angled through the piano bench.
It was all an orchestrated audition to prove Dante Moretti could not control his household.
“What do you want me to do?” Clara asked.
“Tomorrow at ten,” Dante said, “I need Leo to play.”
Clara blinked.
“Play what?”
“The piano in the grand salon.”
“Leo has never touched the piano,” Clara whispered.
“He has watched me play for two years,” Dante countered.
“He knows the patterns.”
“He knows the intervals.”
“He will not touch the keys for me.”
Dante took one step closer, his eyes pleading beneath the iron mask.
“He will touch them for you.”
Before Clara could answer, a piercing shriek echoed from the hallway.
High.
Terrified.
May you like
Shattering the quiet of the estate.
Leo.
