Chapter 2 - The Hand That Matters
The silence in the grand salon was absolute. The five women, each draped in couture and dripping with heirloom jewelry, stood frozen in their expectant poses. Victoria, the heiress in cream silk whose family controlled the eastern shipping docks, held her chin high, her mouth curled into a practiced, triumphant smile. She was certain the child would gravitate toward power. Beside her, the daughter of the Connecticut equestrian dynasty kept her fingers poised, ready to gather the boy into a staged embrace for his father to see.
Matteo did not look at any of them.
He stood in the center of the vast Persian rug, his small fingers still dusting off the knee of his gray wool trousers. He looked once at his father—whose dark eyes were impassive, revealing nothing of his thoughts—and then his gaze dropped back to the floor.
Without a word, the five-year-old turned his back on the diamond-encrusted watches, the promises of imported thoroughbreds, and the stacks of luxury electronics. He took five deliberate, quiet steps across the polished parquet floor.
He stopped in front of Hannah.
Hannah was still kneeling beside the low mahogany bookcase, the brass pin neatly fitted back into the wooden train axle. She hadn't stood up. She hadn't smoothed her plain navy skirt or tried to make herself look like anything other than what she was: an exhausted former teacher whose rent was past due.
Matteo looked down at her. He didn't offer a dramatic declaration. He simply reached down, curled his small, warm hand around two of her fingers, and gave a gentle tug.
"Come on," Matteo murmured, his voice cutting through the suffocating stillness of the room. "The track is upstairs."
A sharp, collective intake of breath rippled across the room.
"Excuse me?" Victoria's voice was thin, razor-sharp with indignation. She took a step forward, the silk of her gown rustling aggressively. "Lucas, this is absurd. The child clearly doesn't understand the question. You asked him to choose who stays."
"He understood perfectly," Lucas said.
The mafia don didn't raise his voice, yet the words dropped like lead weights onto the marble hearth. He remained seated in the high-backed wing chair, his long legs crossed, a tumbler of amber bourbon resting loosely in his left hand. His tailored charcoal suit bore no wrinkles, his posture devoid of tension, yet the three armed men flanking the salon's double doors immediately straightened at the rumble of his tone.
"Mr. Moretti," the woman who had brought the gaming consoles stammered, her face flushing crimson under her heavy foundation. "She’s... she’s the applicant for the daytime nursery staff. She isn't an equal. She isn't one of us."
"That," Lucas murmured, setting his glass onto the side table with a dull, resonant clink, "is precisely why my son chose her."
He stood. At six-foot-three, with silver threading through the dark temples of his hair and a scar tracing the angle of his jaw down into his collar, Lucas Moretti commanded the air in any space he entered. He did not look at the five furious women. He looked at Hannah, who was slowly rising to her feet, her hand still loosely clasped in Matteo's grip.
"Pack your things, ladies," Lucas said coldly, motioning toward the foyer where the head of his private security waited. "The cars are waiting to take you back to the city. Your gifts will be delivered to the municipal orphanage by noon tomorrow."
Outraged murmurs broke out, but none dared challenge him further. The Moretti name carried a bloody weight that even old money feared. One by one, escorted by stone-faced guards, the five women gathered their furs and retreated, leaving the scent of expensive perfume lingering in their wake.
When the heavy doors clicked shut, only Lucas, Hannah, and Matteo remained.
Lucas stepped closer, his heavy leather shoes echoing softly until he stood merely two paces away. His gaze dropped to the small hand locked around Hannah's fingers, then rose to meet her hazel eyes.
"You didn't bow," Lucas observed quietly. "You didn't pitch yourself. Why?"
Hannah tightened her grip slightly, giving Matteo an anchor. "Because children aren't business mergers, Mr. Moretti. And he isn't a prize to be won."
May you like
Lucas’s lips curved into the faintest, most dangerous ghost of a smile. "No. He isn't. Which is why your salary just tripled. Come into my study, Miss Ward. We need to discuss the real terms of your employment."
***
