Chapter 2 - THE CHILD IN THE CATANCOMBS
The Sovereign was a forty-story fortress of reinforced concrete and black tinted glass standing along the East River. It served as Alessandro’s primary private residence whenever the city was in a state of high alert.
By 4:00 a.m., against the furious protestations of my chief cardiologist, I had discharged myself from St. Jude’s. I refused to sit in a hospital room like a fragile piece of porcelain while people hunted us. If my life had been drawn into Alessandro’s dangerous orbit, I was going to stand beside him, not hide behind medical curtains.
A black armored SUV escorted by two motorcycle outriders brought us to the basement garage of the Sovereign.
When the private elevator doors opened on the penthouse floor, the air felt warm, smelling of woodsmoke, roasted chicken, and fresh flowers.
In the center of the massive living room, sitting on a plush velvet sofa that could easily seat eight adults, was Emma.
She looked entirely tiny against the vast backdrop of the penthouse. She was wearing a pair of soft grey cotton pajamas that were three sizes too big for her, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Her dark hair had been washed and brushed into neat waves, revealing a small, delicate face with striking emerald-green eyes. On the glass coffee table before her sat a plate half-filled with chicken tenderloin, fries, and a tall glass of milk.
When the front doors clicked shut, Emma flinched. She instantly pulled her legs up onto the sofa, hugging a velvet throw pillow against her chest like a shield.
"Emma," Alessandro said softly.
He didn't walk toward her like a mob boss. He stopped ten feet away, unbuckled his shoulder holster, and handed his weapon to Marco, who stood quietly near the entrance. Then, Alessandro lowered his massive frame down onto his knees, bringing himself eye-level with the six-year-old girl.
"You remember me?" he asked gently.
Emma nodded once, her emerald eyes darting to me. She stared at my face, then down at my clothes—I was wearing a soft black wool sweater and trousers instead of the red dress.
"You're the lady," Emma whispered, her voice scratchy and small. "The lady from the picture."
I walked over slowly, sitting on the edge of the coffee table opposite her. "I'm Julianna, Emma. I'm the lady who ate the cake you warned Alessandro about."
Emma’s eyes widened with genuine shock. "You... you didn't die?"
"No," I smiled gently, though my throat felt tight. "Because of you, the doctors saved me. You saved both of our lives, Emma."
The little girl let out a shaky breath, her small shoulders dropping as some of the defensive tension left her tiny frame.
"Why were you at Il Cielo that night, Emma?" Alessandro asked, his voice low and patient. "How did you get past the security doors in the basement corridor?"
Emma looked down at her small, clean hands. "My papa worked there."
Alessandro glanced up at Marco, who immediately pulled a black leather notepad from his pocket.
"His name was Thomas," Emma continued softly, her voice trembling. "Thomas Miller. He worked in the cold room. He washed the fish and cut the vegetables."
"Thomas Miller," Marco read from his notes, his face darkening. "Thirty-two years old. Prep cook at Il Cielo for three years. His body was pulled from the East River near Pier 17 yesterday morning. Police reported it as an apparent mugging gone wrong."
A cold spike of fury went through my chest. "They killed her father."
"They needed someone to let the assassin into the private kitchen," Alessandro growled, his jaw tight. "And when Thomas saw what they were planning—or refused to stay quiet—they disposed of him."
"Papa told me to hide," Emma whispered, tears finally pooling in her bright green eyes and spilling over her lashes. "Two days ago... three days ago? I don't know. Papa brought me to work because our apartment landlord locked the door. He put me in the laundry chute behind the big wine racks. He gave me his jacket and told me to stay quiet, no matter what I heard."
She wiped her nose with the oversized sleeve of her pajamas.
"I stayed in the dark room behind the bottles. Then yesterday... I heard shouting. I saw the lady in the red dress. She gave a man in a white apron a small green bottle. I saw her hand him a stack of blue money. She said... she said, 'Make sure the Don drinks it all. His funeral is already paid for.'"
"Did you see the man in the white apron?" Alessandro asked.
"He had a scar," Emma said, pointing to her own jawline. "A big red snake on his neck. And he wore a silver ring with a bird on it."
Alessandro froze.
The silence in the penthouse became heavy, suffocating, and absolute.
Marco stepped forward, his eyes wide with disbelieving shock. "A silver ring with a bird? Boss... that’s..."
"The Falcone crest," Alessandro whispered, his voice dangerously smooth. "Matteo Falcone."
Matteo Falcone was not an outside rival. He was not an enemy from the Chicago syndicates or an international cartel.
Matteo Falcone was Alessandro’s underboss.
He was the man who sat at Alessandro’s right hand during every commission meeting. He was the man who managed the docks in Brooklyn, the man who had stood as godfather to Alessandro’s younger brother twenty years ago.
"Matteo," I breathed, the horror of it settling into my bones. "He set the whole thing up. He used your own restaurant against you."
"Matteo doesn't have the stomach for a move this complex on his own," Alessandro said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits of calculating intelligence. "He’s ambitious, but he’s cautious. To print funeral programs, to hire an exact body double for Julianna, to buy off Il Cielo’s kitchen staff... Matteo is working with someone else."
"Who?" I asked.
"The woman in the red dress," Alessandro replied. "She didn't just buy a duplicate dress off the rack. My silk gown was custom-designed by Julian Vane in Milan. There are only two copies of that dress in existence—mine, and the prototype kept in Vane’s private atelier on Madison Avenue."
Alessandro stood up, turning to Marco.
"Get the car. We are paying a late-night visit to Mr. Julian Vane."
"What about Emma?" I asked, turning to the little girl who was watching us with wide, uncertain eyes.
Alessandro walked over to Emma. Slowly, solemnly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold signet ring bearing the Moretti crest—a heavy piece of solid gold that represented total immunity within his empire. He placed the heavy ring into Emma’s tiny palm and closed her small fingers over it.
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"This girl stays under my personal protection for the rest of her life," Alessandro commanded Marco. "If a single hair on her head is harmed, I will personally burn this city to the ground. She is a Moretti now."
Emma looked up at Alessandro, then down at the shiny gold ring in her fist. For the first time since she had run barefoot through the dining room at Il Cielo, a tiny, fragile smile appeared on her face.
