Part 3: The Sanctuary of Iron
The private recovery wing of the Moretti Estate in Rhode Island smelled of cedar wood and expensive linen.
It had been three weeks since the night at Boston General.
Luca was currently sleeping in a massive, hand-carved mahogany crib in the center of the room, his fever completely gone, his cheeks regaining their healthy, pink color.
I sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, a warm cup of chamomile tea untouched in my hands, watching the rain strike the bulletproof glass of the window.
The door opened silently, and Giovanni walked in, wearing a clean white shirt, his tie discarded, his dark hair still damp from the courtyard.
He sat down in the armchair opposite me, his gaze scanning my face with a terrifyingly intense scrutiny.
— You survived fifteen months in that tenement, Lauren, he said, his voice flat and absolute. Why didn't you call my lawyers? Why didn't you take the trust fund money?
— Because your money comes with a perimeter, Giovanni, I whispered, looking down at the porcelain cup. Your money means security teams at the grocery store. It means Luca growing up knowing what a ballistic vest feels like before he learns how to ride a bicycle.
Giovanni leaned forward, his large hands resting on his knees, his shadow completely covering my space.
— And look what your freedom almost cost him, he said, his words cutting through the quiet room like a scalpel. If you had called me ten minutes later, Dr. Sullivan said the infection would have reached his brain stem.
The truth of his words hit me like a physical blow.
I had tried so hard to protect my child from the dark world of the Moretti syndicate that I had accidentally delivered him into the hands of a mundane, careless poverty that nearly killed him anyway.
— I was scared, Giovanni, I choked out, the tears finally spilling over my eyelashes.
He stood up, walking over to the sofa, and knelt down in front of me, his large, calloused hand gently taking the tea cup from my fingers and placing it on the table.
He didn't hold me. He didn't offer a romantic apology.
But as his thumb brushed a stray tear from my cheek, I felt the slight, uncontrollable tremor in his fingers.
— The Carusos are gone, Lauren, he murmured, his jaw tight. Their assets were liquidated by the federal district court yesterday afternoon. Their territory belongs to Luca now.
I looked at him, realizing that the man I had divorced fifteen months ago hadn't changed at all.
He was still the monster who turned fear into currency.
But today, that monster was the only thing standing between my son and the cold reality of a world that didn't care if we lived or died.
— What happens now? I asked, looking toward the crib.
May you like
Giovanni stood up, pulling a fresh legal document from his jacket.
— The custody agreement is simple, he said. You stay here, inside the perimeter. You run the foundation. And I keep the world outside from ever touching either of you again.
