Chapter 5 - The Sweetest Breakfast
The following morning, sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the estate’s private dining room. For the past five years, Nicholas had eaten breakfast in complete, suffocating solitude, surrounded by bodyguards and stacks of intelligence reports on rival syndicates.
Today, however, the dining room sounded entirely different.
A quiet giggle echoed against the oak-paneled walls.
At the far end of the grand mahogany table sat Lucy. She was perched on top of two leather booster pillows, wearing a brand-new yellow sundress that Arthur had sent a driver to fetch at dawn. Her wrist was wrapped in clean, white medical gauze, secured with a small adhesive bandage shaped like a cartoon bear that Dr. Evans had left behind.
In the center of the table was a massive silver platter piled high with freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies, warm croissants, bowls of fresh strawberries, and small pitchers of warm milk.
Nicholas sat at the head of the table, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He had pushed his business tablets aside. In front of him was an untouched cup of black espresso.
Maria stood anxiously near the doorway in a fresh uniform, wringing her hands. “Mr. Moretti, please, let me take her to the kitchen. It isn’t right for her to eat at your table.”
“Maria, sit down,” Nicholas said without looking up from his coffee.
“Sir, I couldn’t possibly—”
“It wasn't a request,” Nicholas said smoothly, gesturing to the chair beside Lucy. “Sit. Eat. You look like you haven’t slept in forty-eight hours. The staff will take care of the estate today. You are off duty until Monday.”
Maria hesitated, tears glistening in her eyes once again, but she obediently pulled out a chair and sat beside her daughter.
Lucy grabbed a cookie with both hands, broke it carefully down the middle, and held one half out across the wide table toward Nicholas.
“For you, Uncle Nick,” she said brightly.
Nicholas blinked. In the criminal underworld, men called him 'The Reaper of Manhattan.' Governors addressed him as 'Mr. Moretti' with quivering knees. No one in thirty years had called him 'Uncle Nick.'
He reached across the table, took the warm half of the cookie, and held it between his fingers. “Thank you, Lucy.”
He took a bite. It was sweet, rich, and ridiculously messy. Chocolate smudged onto his thumb.
Lucy beamed, taking a bite of her own half. “See? Sharing makes it taste better.”
“Indeed it does,” Nicholas agreed, feeling an odd, unfamiliar warmth settle into his chest.
Before he could finish the pastry, the heavy double doors opened. Marco, Nicholas’s second-in-command and chief of security, walked in with a grim expression. Marco was a battle-hardened man who rarely showed emotion, but the tension in his jaw spoke volumes.
“Boss,” Marco said quietly, keeping his voice low out of respect for the child. “We have a situation. Marcus Hart is on the secure line. He’s outside his mind with rage. He’s threatening to shut down the Hudson terminals by noon.”
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Nicholas’s warm expression vanished instantly, replaced by the cold, calculating mask of a ruthless commander. He gently set down the rest of the cookie and wiped his hands on a napkin.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Nicholas said softly to Maria and Lucy. “Business calls.”
