Chapter 7 - The Ghost of Marcus Dawson
By dawn, the rain had stopped, leaving a heavy blanket of gray mist over the
Hudson Valley.
I sat in an oversized leather armchair inside a grand private suite on the
second floor.
I had showered, scrubbing the grease of the restaurant and the dried blood of
Lorenzo from my skin.
Someone had left clean, soft clothes for me—a cream cashmere sweater and
tailored dark pants that fit perfectly.
In the adjoining room, Leo was sleeping peacefully in a massive king-sized bed.
His fever had broken completely.
Dr. Rossi had administered an advanced pediatric pulmonary treatment that
cleared his bronchial tubes.
He was breathing deeply, softly, his chest rising without a single wheeze.
On his nightstand sat a giant silver tray filled with fresh fruit, warm
pancakes, and a wooden carving of a Tyrannosaurus Rex that one of the estate
guards had brought him.
For the first time in four years, my son looked like a child who had never known
hunger.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Dante stepped inside.
"He's awake," Dante said.
"He's asking for you."
My heart gave a sudden, nervous flutter.
I stood up, smoothed down my sweater, and followed Dante down the corridor to
the master wing.
Lorenzo lay propped up in a massive mahogany four-poster bed.
His chest was wrapped in thick, sterile white bandages.
His face was still pale from blood loss, the scar over his eyebrow stark against
his skin.
Yet the cold, commanding power in his storm-gray eyes had already returned.
When I walked through the door, his eyes locked onto mine.
The tension in his broad shoulders visibly relaxed.
"Clara," he murmured, his voice rough and gravelly.
I walked to the side of the bed, feeling suddenly small in the presence of this
titan.
"You should be resting," I said quietly.
"You died for thirty seconds on that table."
"Thirty seconds in hell is nothing new for me," Lorenzo said, offering the
faintest ghost of a smile.
He pointed weakly toward the armchair beside his bed.
"Sit. Please."
I sat down, folding my hands in my lap.
"Leo is safe," I told him, wanting to ease whatever burden he was carrying.
"His fever is gone. Your doctor... she worked miracles. He’s sleeping."
"Good," Lorenzo whispered.
He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a slow, measured breath.
"Dante told me you stayed outside the glass during the surgery."
"I couldn't leave," I confessed.
"Not after what you did for my son."
I looked into his eyes, searching for answers to the questions that had haunted
me all night.
"Why did Marcus steal that money, Lorenzo? What was he really doing?"
Lorenzo’s expression darkened.
He reached over to the nightstand and picked up a manila folder with his
uninjured right arm.
He tossed it onto my lap.
"Open it," he said.
I opened the folder.
Inside were glossy photographs taken with long-range surveillance lenses.
The first photo showed a luxurious beachfront villa in Costa Rica, surrounded by
palm trees and azure waters.
Lounge chairs sat beside an infinity pool.
In the second photo, a man sat on the terrace sipping a cocktail.
He had tanned skin, expensive designer sunglasses, and dyed blonde hair.
Beside him sat a glamorous young woman in a bikini.
My breath caught in my throat.
Even with the dye and the sunglasses, I recognized the shape of that jaw.
The slope of that nose.
It was Marcus.
My husband.
The man I had spent four years weeping for.
The father who had abandoned his sick boy to rot in a cockroach-infested
walk-up.
"He didn't just run to save his life," Lorenzo explained, his tone laced with
cold fury.
"Marcus was embezzling funds from Vance’s accounts for two full years before he
staged the crash."
"He planned the escape before Leo was even born."
"He purchased that villa in Costa Rica through an offshore trust under a
fictitious name: Julian Vance."
"Why Vance?" I asked, sickened to my core.
"Because Marcus wanted Salvatore Vance to think one of his own brothers had
betrayed him," Lorenzo said.
"Marcus intentionally ignited a gang war between Vance’s family and mine so
everyone would be too busy shooting each other to track the missing money."
Lorenzo leaned his head back against the pillows.
"Marcus used you as a shield. He knew that as long as Salvatore believed the
money might still be hidden in Queens, Salvatore’s men would keep you under
surveillance."
"And as long as they watched you, Marcus was invisible."
I stared at the photographs.
A wave of cold, crystalline fury washed over me.
All those nights I had skipped dinner so Leo could have applesauce.
All those winter mornings I had wrapped Leo in three coats because we couldn't
afford oil.
While we starved, Marcus was drinking champagne on a private beach funded by
blood money.
"He is a monster," I whispered, my voice trembling with an anger I had never
felt before.
"Yes," Lorenzo agreed.
"And Salvatore Vance finally discovered Marcus's real location yesterday
morning."
Lorenzo locked his piercing gray eyes onto mine.
"Vance sent Christian to Queens to grab Leo. Vance’s plan was to torture your
son on a live video feed, broadcasting it to Marcus’s villa until Marcus wired
back all twelve million dollars."
Horror, pure and sickening, clawed at my throat.
If I hadn't invited Lorenzo to Table 42...
If Lorenzo hadn't sent his tactical team...
My sweet, innocent baby would have been slaughtered on camera.
I dropped the folder on the floor and buried my face in my hands.
"I was living in a nightmare," I sobbed.
"And I didn't even know it."
A warm, heavy hand covered mine.
Lorenzo pulled my hands away from my face.
He didn't let go.
His fingers were rough, calloused from triggers and violence, but his touch was
warmer than sunlight.
"The nightmare is over, Clara," Lorenzo promised softly.
"Christian Vance is dead. Marcus Dawson will be dealt with in due time."
He pulled my hand closer to his chest, resting it just above the bandage
covering his wounded heart.
"You and Leo are under the mantle of the Moretti family now."
"No one will ever make you skip a meal again."
"No one will ever threaten your boy again."
Before I could speak, the heavy oak doors of the bedroom burst open.
Dante stood in the threshold, his face grim.
"Boss," Dante said, his voice tight.
"We have a problem in Manhattan."
Lorenzo didn't let go of my hand.
"Speak, Dante."
"Salvatore Vance just paid a visit to The Gilded Spoon," Dante reported.
"He brought thirty armed men. He tore the restaurant apart looking for Clara’s
May you like
employee records."
"And Philippe Laurent... your former manager... just told Vance everything."
