Chapter 7 - The Ghost at the Breakfast Table
The morning sun cast a cold, golden glow across the expansive dining room of the Moretti estate. A long mahogany table, large enough to seat twenty people, was sparsely set with a crystal pitcher of iced water, a silver rack of toast, and a steaming cup of black coffee. Aleandro sat at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on a glowing tablet displaying real-time shipping manifests from the Newark harbor.
The double doors swung open, and Elena walked in, holding Maya by her small, warm hand. The little girl was wearing a clean yellow dress Salvatore had had a personal shopper pick up from a high-end boutique in Manhattan earlier that morning. Maya’s brown curls were tied back with a neat velvet ribbon, and she clutched a stuffed rabbit under her arm.
For a second, Aleandro looked up from his tablet. The sight of the child walking across the parquet floor, completely unbothered by the oppressive luxury and dark history of the room, sent a strange, unfamiliar jolt through his chest. It was a domestic scene foreign to the Moretti bloodline—a family breakfast, however fractured and forced it might be.
"Morning," Aleandro muttered, his voice neutral as he set the tablet down.
Maya stopped halfway across the room, staring up at him with wide, curious hazel eyes. She didn't seem to remember that this was the terrifying man she had yelled at yesterday afternoon. Instead, she pointed a tiny finger at the silver plate of pastries in the center of the table. "Are those cookies?"
Elena flushed crimson, her face burning with embarrassment. "Maya, don't point. I am so sorry, Mr. Moretti—"
"They're Italian butter cookies," Aleandro interrupted, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch playing at the corner of his mouth. He reached out, picked up a small pastry from the silver tray, and extended it across the table toward the little girl. "Not quite cookies, but close enough for breakfast."
Maya looked up at her mother for permission. Elena gave a cautious, hesitant nod. The toddler stepped forward, her small hand reaching out to take the pastry from the mafia boss's massive, calloused fingers.
"Say thank you," Elena whispered.
"Thank you, mister," Maya said cheerfully, taking a small bite and immediately breaking into a wide, gap-toothed grin. "It's good!"
Aleandro watched her chew, his dark eyes softening for a fraction of a second before he hardened his expression, looking back toward Elena. "The medical transport touched down on the north pad ten minutes ago. Dr. Harrison’s team is waiting in the hangar. Salvatore will escort you and Maya to the chopper."
Elena felt a lump form in her throat. The reality of what was happening—leaving the safety of the estate, plunging into the terrifying unknown of major heart surgery in Boston—suddenly crashed down on her. "And you? Are you coming with us?"
Aleandro picked up his coffee cup, taking a slow sip before answering. "I have business in the city. A container from Newark that requires my personal attention. But Salvatore will stay with you at the hospital in Boston. He’s authorized to handle any... complications."
"Complications," Elena repeated bitterly. "You mean rivals, don't you? Even in a children's hospital, you bring your war with you."
"In my world, Elena, the war never stops," Aleandro said coldly, standing up from his chair and adjusting his cuffs. "It just changes locations. Get your things. The helicopter leaves in twenty minutes."
May you like
As Aleandro strode out of the dining room through a side exit, Elena gripped Maya’s hand a little tighter, realizing that while her daughter’s heart might soon be mended by the finest doctors money could buy, her own life was now permanently tangled in the dark, inescapable web of the Moretti syndicate.
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