Chapter 3 - Ghosts in the Penthouse
The morning sun crept over the horizon, painting the slate-grey waters of Upper New York Bay in hues of rose and copper. Villa Moretti awoke not to the sound of alarm clocks, but to the synchronized, quiet precision of a military base. Guards in black tactical gear patrolled the perimeter with Belgian Malinois on tight leashes, their boots crunching on gravel paths.
In the nursery, the atmosphere was markedly different.
The room was vast, decorated in shades of pale blue and cream, filled with handcrafted wooden toys, miniature train sets, and stuffed animals that still had their designer tags on them. Yet, despite the wealth of entertainment, it felt neglected. The heavy velvet curtains had kept out the light for months, trapping the room in perpetual gloom.
Clara knelt by the window, pulling the velvet drapes aside and tying them with silk cords. Warm morning sunlight flooded the room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
On the center of a grand mahogany toddler bed shaped like a pirate ship, little Leo stirred. He blinked against the unfamiliar light, rubbing his eyes with chubby fists. For a terrifying second, Clara saw the familiar panic flare in his gaze—the intake of breath that signaled an impending meltdown.
"Good morning, Leo," Clara said in a cheerful, conversational tone, keeping her distance by the window. She was dressed in comfortable linen trousers and a soft cream knit sweater. She held a bright yellow wooden duck in her hands. "Look who woke up first. Quack-quack says the sun is awake, but I told him Leo was still having sweet dreams."
Leo paused. His mouth remained open, but no scream emerged. He looked at Clara, his brow furrowing as his three-year-old brain processed her face. The apron was gone, the noisy restaurant was gone, but her voice was the same. The warmth in her eyes was the same.
Clara gently rolled the wooden duck across the plush rug toward the bed. It clattered softly against the wooden baseboards.
Leo slipped off the mattress, his bare feet padding across the floor. He picked up the duck, examined the wheels, and then looked up at Clara. He walked toward her, stopped two inches away, and extended his other hand, grasping Clara’s thumb with his entire fist.
"Duh," Leo said. A broken syllable, but a voice nonetheless.
A genuine smile broke across Clara’s face, softening the exhaustion that usually framed her features. "That’s right. A duck. Let’s go get some blueberries, okay? I bet you’re starving."
Downstairs in the breakfast parlor, Rico was reviewing shipping manifests on his tablet while sipping black espresso. Dante stood by the French doors, listening to the static hum of an encrypted earpiece.
The heavy sound of footsteps approached. Rico didn't look up, expecting Mrs. Gable with more paperwork, but then he heard something that caused his entire body to freeze.
A soft, childish giggle.
Rico’s head snapped up.
Clara walked into the sunlit breakfast room carrying Leo on her hip. The boy was wearing clean navy pajamas, his dark hair neatly combed, holding his yellow wooden duck tightly. He wasn't crying. He wasn't biting. He was pointing a small finger at the crystal fruit bowl on the buffet.
"Berries," Leo whispered, looking at Clara.
Rico rose from his seat so quickly his chair scraped harshly against the floor. Dante reached for his holster out of pure reflex before catching himself, his jaw dropping in utter shock.
"He spoke," Rico breathed, the words barely a rasp. "He hasn't spoken a single word since... since October."
Clara set Leo down gently on a cushioned chair at the end of the long dining table. "He was overwhelmed, Mr. Moretti. Children who experience severe trauma often lock their voices away because they feel completely out of control. If you don't force him, he’ll come back to the world in his own time."
Rico walked over to the table, his movements slow, as if terrified that a sudden movement would shatter the illusion. He knelt beside his son's chair, the merciless mob boss reduced to an insecure father desperate for connection.
"Leo?" Rico whispered, his hand hovering near the boy's shoulder. "Buddy?"
Leo looked at his father. The fear wasn't entirely gone, but the blind panic had dissipated. He reached into the small porcelain bowl of fresh blueberries Clara placed in front of him, picked one up, and held it out toward Rico.
Rico blinked, a sudden moisture glistening in the corners of his hard grey eyes. He leaned forward and took the berry with his lips, chewing it mechanically as if it were the most sacred communion wafer.
"Good boy," Rico choked out, his hand finally resting gently on his son’s dark hair. Leo didn't flinch away. He simply went back to eating his fruit.
Rico stood up, clearing his throat aggressively to master his emotions. He turned to look at Clara. The suspicion that had hardened his eyes the night before had shifted into something else—something complex, deeply curious, and profoundly dangerous.
"You did this in eight hours," Rico murmured, stepping closer to her, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Who the hell are you, Clara Vance? Really?"
Clara held his gaze, her chin raised. "I’m just the girl who took the job, Mr. Moretti. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Leo and I are going to explore the gardens. He needs fresh air, not men with submachine guns staring at him while he eats."
Before Rico could command her to stop, Clara took Leo’s hand, helped him down from the chair, and led him out through the open French doors into the dewy morning air.
Dante stepped up beside Rico, watching them disappear into the hedge maze. "Boss... do you want me to dig deeper into Chicago? Her story holds up, but it feels too clean. Nobody in our world is that clean."
Rico watched Clara bend down to show Leo a blooming white rose, the morning breeze whipping strands of chestnut hair across her face.
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"Dig," Rico commanded, his voice cold and resolute. "Find out who made her run. Because a woman doesn't learn how to handle monsters unless she was raised by one."
***
