Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of Iron
The Moretti Estate in Brookville, Long Island, was a fortress of grey stone, tall iron gates, and high security walls wrapped in top-tier surveillance systems.
When the convoy of black SUVs swept through the grand entrance at two o'clock in the morning, forty guards posted around the grounds snapped to attention.
Inside the grand foyer, the air was warm, smelling of polished mahogany, beeswax, and fresh flowers. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light across the white marble floors—the very picture of royal luxury.
Annie gasped softly, her fingers tightening around Alessandro’s neck. She had spent her entire three years in a tiny, cold room; she had never seen a house bigger than a corner grocery store.
“It’s big,” Annie whispered, her eyes wide as she looked up at the vaulted ceiling.
“It’s yours,” Alessandro corrected quietly.
He walked up the grand staircase, ignoring the servants who bowed as he passed. He carried her straight into the master suite—a massive room with a fireplace roaring with warm oak logs, a king-sized bed wrapped in plush velvet, and an adjoining private lounge.
An elderly woman in a neat grey uniform rushed into the room. It was Mrs. Gable, the estate’s head housekeeper who had served the Moretti family for thirty years.
“Don Alessandro!” Mrs. Gable gasped, her eyes dropping to the wet, tiny child cradled in her master’s arms. “Good heavens... who is this little angel?”
“This is Annie,” Alessandro said, his voice ringing through the large room. “She is my daughter. She is the mistress of this house.”
Mrs. Gable’s jaw dropped. She looked at the child’s dark curls, her gray-blue eyes, and the silver songbird hanging around her neck. She instantly recognized Elena’s face in the child’s features. Mrs. Gable’s hand flew to her mouth as tears filled her eyes. “Oh... sweet merciful Jesus... Miss Elena’s baby...”
“Prepare a hot bath,” Alessandro commanded gently. “Bring warm clothes, milk, and whatever soft food the kitchen has prepared. And call a tailor to bring a complete wardrobe by sunrise.”
“Right away, sir! Right away!” Mrs. Gable scurried off, wiping her eyes with her apron.
Twenty minutes later, Annie was sitting on the edge of the plush master bed, wrapped in a soft, oversized white bathrobe. Her wet hair had been gently dried, revealing a halo of soft dark ringlets. She was eating a bowl of warm chicken soup with a silver spoon, her small hands navigating the silver with quiet, careful precision.
Alessandro sat in an armchair beside the bed, his dark suit jacket discarded, his crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He watched her eat as if she were the only thing that existed in the universe.
Marco knocked softly on the doorframe before stepping into the bedroom. He looked tense, his phone clutched in his gloved hand.
“Boss,” Marco said in a low voice. “Underboss Lucian and Capo Matteo have arrived downstairs. They saw the security convoy come in. They’re asking why the entire estate has been placed on red alert.”
Alessandro’s eyes darkened.
Lucian and Matteo.
Two of the three men who wore red ruby signet rings. The third man—Marco—was standing right beside him.
Alessandro looked at Marco’s hands. On Marco’s right pinky finger sat his ruby ring—a gift Alessandro had given him ten years ago after Marco took a bullet for him in Chicago.
“Marco,” Alessandro said softly, keeping his eyes on Annie.
“Yes, Don Alessandro?”
“Five years ago, when Elena disappeared... who managed the security shifts at the Staten Island safehouse?”
Marco hesitated for a fraction of a second. “It was Lucian’s team, Boss. Lucian assigned the perimeter guards. But Matteo was the one who provided the safehouse location from his real estate portfolio.”
“And where were you that night?”
Marco didn't flinch. He looked Alessandro straight in the eyes, his expression transparent and steady. “I was in Miami with you, Boss. At the cartel negotiation. I was standing right beside you when the call came in.”
Alessandro nodded slowly. That was true. Marco had been by his side every second of that horrific night. Marco was clean.
That left two men downstairs: Lucian Moretti and Matteo Vance.
One of them had sold Elena to Falcone. One of them had forced his pregnant wife to run into the freezing rain and hide in a Brooklyn tenement.
“Keep Annie in this room,” Alessandro ordered Marco, standing up and buttoning his waistcoat. “Post four guards at the door. If anyone—and I mean anyone—attempts to enter without my direct command, put a bullet in their head.”
“Understood, Don Alessandro,” Marco bowed.
Alessandro turned back to his daughter. He knelt beside the bed, touching her soft cheek. “I have to go downstairs for a few minutes, Annie. Mrs. Gable will stay with you.”
Annie set her silver spoon down. She looked at him, her gray-blue eyes filled with that solemn, ancient wisdom. “Are you going to fight the bad men?”
Alessandro’s lips twitched into a small, dangerous smile. “I am going to take care of business, sweetheart. Eat your soup.”
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Annie reached out, her tiny hand wrapping around his thumb, squeezing it with surprising strength. “Don't be long. The room is too big without you.”
Alessandro felt a surge of warmth wash over his cold, dark heart. He kissed her forehead gently. “I won't be long, my princess.”
