Chapter 7 - Shadows in the Nursery
Upstairs in the master suite, the morning sunlight was finally burning through the heavy leaded glass of the windows, casting long, geometric patterns across the Persian rug.
Nora sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, watching Sophie methodically line up three wooden blocks on the quilt. The little girl was quiet—too quiet for a three-year-old—her movements deliberate and cautious, as if she were still afraid that any sudden noise would make the room disappear.
The door clicked open, and Roman stepped inside. He had removed his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves still rolled up, carrying a heavy silver tray with a bowl of oatmeal, sliced strawberries, and a glass of fresh orange juice.
"How is she?" Roman asked quietly, stopping a few feet away so as not to startle the child.
"She hasn't spoken a word since we woke up," Nora said, her eyes fixed on Sophie's small, thin fingers. "She keeps checking her pockets to make sure the doll is still there. Every time a car passes on the road outside, she freezes."
Roman set the tray down on the bedside table and knelt down on the rug beside Sophie. He didn't try to touch her right away; instead, he picked up one of the wooden blocks and slowly stacked it on top of her tower.
Sophie looked up, her slate-grey eyes—the exact mirror of his own—studying his face for a long, agonizing moment. Then, with infinite care, she placed her small hand over his thumb.
"Daddy," she whispered, testing the word like it was something fragile she had found in the grass.
Roman felt a lump rise in his throat that he couldn't swallow down. He reached out and gently pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her soft, fine hair, inhaling the clean scent of the herbal soap Nora had used to bathe her the night before.
"I'm right here, baby," Roman muttered against her ear, his voice thick with a raw emotion he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a decade. "I'm not going anywhere. Nobody will ever take you from this house again."
Nora watched them from the edge of the bed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The tension in her shoulders didn't ease; if anything, the sight of Roman holding their daughter only seemed to deepen the shadow in her eyes.
"You think words are enough, Roman?" Nora said softly when Sophie had turned her attention back to the wooden blocks. "You think you can just snap your fingers, banish your mother to Italy, and turn this house into a safe haven after three years of hell? The men downstairs—the ones who ran drugs and shook down shopkeepers while you were busy expanding the shipping lines—they aren't going to turn into corporate accountants just because you told them to."
"They'll do what I say because the alternative is a pine box," Roman said, gently setting Sophie back down on the quilt before standing up to face Nora. "The syndicate is mine. Every dock, every warehouse, every ledger. I built this half of the empire with my own hands after the old man died. I know where every body is buried—literally and figuratively."
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"And what about us?" Nora asked, her voice rising slightly, the three years of terror and exhaustion finally breaking through her control. "What happens when the federal indictments drop? What happens when a rival family decides that a distracted Don with a three-year-old child is vulnerable? You can't protect us from your own world, Roman. That world is the monster."
Before Roman could answer, a sharp, urgent rap sounded at the bedroom door.
