Chapter 6 - A Fractured Morning
Sunlight filtered through the heavy velvet drapes of the private dining room, casting long ribbons of gold across the polished mahogany table. For the first time in twenty-four hours, the terror of the previous night felt like a receding nightmare, though the scars remained fresh.
Mia sat perched on a leather armchair that swallowed her tiny frame, her legs swinging cheerfully above the Persian rug. In front of her sat a towering stack of buttermilk pancakes dripping with maple syrup and fresh strawberries, prepared personally by the estate’s bewildered but doting head chef.
“Mr. Boss Man?” Mia piped up suddenly, a smudge of whipped cream on her upper lip.
Chiara, sitting beside her, nearly choked on her black coffee. “Mia, sweetheart, use his name—or Don Alessandro.”
Alessandro sat at the head of the table. He had already dressed in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, crisp white shirt, and silk tie, yet he hadn’t touched his espresso. Instead, he was watching the four-year-old girl with an expression no soldier in his syndicate had ever witnessed: complete, unguarded bewilderment.
“It’s fine,” Alessandro said, raising a hand to soothe Chiara’s embarrassment. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “What is it, little one?”
“Your house has a lot of big dogs outside,” Mia said, pointing her silver fork toward the grand French windows that looked out over the manicured grounds. “And men with radios. Are we playing hide-and-seek?”
Alessandro’s lips twitched with the ghost of a rare smile. “Something like that. But in this game, my men are the seekers, and no one is allowed to find you.”
“Good,” Mia declared with absolute childhood certainty, shoving a strawberry into her mouth. “Because Mommy was scared. But I told her you were bigger than the bad men.”
Chiara flushed crimson, avoiding Alessandro’s gaze as she busied herself cutting Mia’s pancakes into smaller bites. But Alessandro did not look away. His eyes remained locked on Chiara’s averted profile, reading the exhaustion etched beneath her eyes and the lingering fear in the tense curve of her neck.
The heavy double doors of the dining room clicked open. Salvatore, Alessandro’s chief enforcer and right hand, stepped into the threshold. His face was grim, devoid of its usual stoic calm. He did not speak immediately, waiting until Alessandro caught his eye.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Alessandro said gently to the table. He rose smoothly and walked over to the doorway, stepping just outside into the marble foyer.
“What is it?” Alessandro demanded in a low undertone.
May you like
“It’s Elena,” Salvatore reported, his voice tight. “She’s at the front gate with four Falcone SUVs. She’s demanding entry. She says she came to bring you your wedding band for the fitting—and she wants to know why half the city's private security channels are buzzing about a raid on the eastern borough.”
***
