Chapter 3 - Blood and Marble
A soft wooden clack snapped me out of my trance.
I looked down at the rug.
Lucas had dropped his wooden horse. He was sitting on his knees, staring up at me with wide, expectant eyes.
“Mr. Moretti?” the boy asked softly, tilting his head. “Why are you crying?”
I reached up with a gloved hand and touched my own cheek. It was wet.
Alessandro Moretti had not cried since his mother died in Sicily when he was ten years old. Not when his father was buried. Not when Isabella’s coffin was lowered into the frozen ground.
Yet here I was, kneeling on the cold marble floor in front of a three-year-old boy in moon pajamas, tears burning my eyes like acid.
I dropped to both knees, ignoring the sharp pain in my joints, and reached out toward him.
My big, scarred, gun-calloused hands hovered inches from his shoulders. I was afraid to touch him. Afraid that my fingers, which had brought down empires and signed death warrants, would break something so fragile and clean.
“Lucas,” I choked out, my voice cracking into a ragged whisper. “Come here.”
The little boy didn't hesitate.
He didn't pull back from the intimidating, cold man the rest of the world feared. He leaned forward, wrapped his small arms around my neck, and pressed his cheek against my shoulder. He smelled of warm milk, baby soap, and rain.
“Mommy said you would keep me safe,” Lucas whispered into my neck. “She said you’re the biggest king in the world.”
I closed my eyes and wrapped my heavy arms around his tiny frame, pulling my son against my chest.
A ragged sob tore through my throat.
May you like
Five years of icy silence, grief, and ruthless violence melted away in the quiet dawn of the east room. I squeezed my eyes shut, burying my face in his chestnut curls.
“I am your father, Lucas,” I whispered against his skin, promising it to the heavens, to Isabella’s memory, and to the quiet spirit of Rosa Mendes. “I am your father, and no one will ever hurt you again.”
