Chapter 2 - THE SHADOWS OF MORETTI HOUSEThe transition from the sterile, fluorescent-lit halls of St. Catherine’s to the sprawling limestone fortress of Moretti House in Alpine, New Jersey, felt to Emma like stepping into another century.
It was not a request she had been given the luxury of declining. When Gabriel Moretti realized his son’s life had been saved by a quiet, grieving stranger, his protective instincts—honed by decades of syndicate warfare and corporate ruthlessness—had instantly classified her as both a savior and an unknown variable.
“You will live here,” Gabriel had told her in the hospital corridor, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. “A security detail will secure the east wing. You will nurse both Anthony and Lucia until they are strong enough for solid food. Name your price—money, property, protection. Anything.”
“I don’t want your money,” Emma had answered, her chin lifted. “I want to make sure these children don’t die while you’re busy fighting invisible enemies.”
Now, sitting in the high-backed velvet armchair of the east wing nursery, Emma watched the flickering shadows cast by the roaring marble fireplace. The room was larger than her entire apartment in Astoria, lined with hand-carved mahogany bookshelves and imported French tapestries. Yet, despite the luxury, the air felt thin, heavy with unspoken grief and the constant, subtle tension of armed men patrolling the hallways outside.
The door clicked open, and Gabriel stepped inside. He had removed his suit jacket, his crisp white dress shirt open at the collar, revealing the strong column of his throat and the faint scar tracing his left collarbone—a souvenir from a Palermo alleyway a decade ago.
He walked over to the twin bassinets, looking down at his children. Both infants were sleeping peacefully, their breathing steady and deep.
“Dr. Adler called,” Gabriel said quietly, keeping his distance so as not to wake them. “He said their weight is up four ounces in forty-eight hours. They haven't regurgitated a single drop.”
“They needed something formulas can't replicate,” Emma said, not looking up from the wooden rattle she was slowly polishing with a soft cloth—a habit from her days in the craft shop. “They needed a heartbeat that matched their mother’s grief.”
Gabriel stiffened. He walked over to the fireplace, resting his heavy forearm against the mantelpiece, staring down into the flames.
“Isabella loved things that were made by hand,” Gabriel murmured, his voice dropping so low Emma barely caught the words. “She used to tell me that mass-produced items have no soul because no one spent time bleeding over them.”
Emma paused her polishing. She looked up at him, seeing past the tailored clothes, the billion-dollar portfolio, and the mafia legacy that weighed on his shoulders. She saw a man who had held his dying wife in one hand and his newborn children in the other.
“She would have liked my shop,” Emma said softly. “Graceful Things. In Astoria.”
Gabriel turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers. There was a sudden, sharp intensity in his gaze—not anger, but calculation. “I know about your shop, Emma Brooks. I know about your lease, your tax returns, and the insurance payout from the fire that destroyed your storage unit two months before you gave birth.”
Emma’s breath hitched. Her hands tightened around the wooden toy. “That wasn't a fire. It was an electrical short in the old wiring.”
“Nothing in Astoria happens by accident,” Gabriel said, stepping closer, his imposing height casting a shadow over her chair. “Especially not accidents that destroy the financial records of independent artisans who happened to rent space from a shell corporation controlled by the Marcone syndicate.”
Emma stood up, her heart pounding against her ribs. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that you weren't chosen at random to be at St. Catherine’s hospital three weeks ago,” Gabriel said coldly.
Before Emma could process the terrifying implication of his words, a sharp, frantic knock echoed at the nursery door.
Vince, the head of security, burst into the room without waiting for permission. His face was pale, his hand resting instinctively on the grip of his shoulder holster.
“Boss,” Vince panted, glancing nervously at Emma before meeting Gabriel’s eyes. “We just intercepted an encrypted transmission routed through the hospital’s internal server. Someone accessed the neonatal ward’s security logs twenty minutes ago.”
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Gabriel’s expression went completely dead—the look of a predator smelling blood in the water. “Who?”
“Not an outsider,” Vince swallowed hard. “The digital signature belongs to Dr. Benjamin Adler’s personal terminal.”
