5

The silence in the nursery is heavy, a thick, velvet blanket that smells of lavender talcum powder and warm milk. Jenilya has been dead to the world for hours, adhering to her rigid, eight-hour beauty sleep regimen like it’s a religious sacrament. Down the hall, her door is shut tight, probably locked, shutting out the rest of the house and the baby she barely looks at during the day.

I look down at the bundle in my arms. Matthew is so small, a fragile, warm weight against my chest. His breathing is a soft, rhythmic huff against my collarbone, a tiny puff of air that escapes his slightly parted lips. He’s only eight months old, but he feels lighter than he should, a little bird with a heartbeat that thrums against my own. In the dim light of the nursery, his eyelashes are long spidery shadows against his cheeks. He’s exhausted. The day was full of new sounds and faces, and he fought sleep for hours, cranky and restless, until he finally surrendered.

I shift my weight, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug. The house is so different at night. During the day, it’s a hive of activity—staff moving like ghosts, Jenilya’s sharp voice echoing off the marble floors, the constant hum of expensive machinery keeping the massive estate running. Now, it feels like a tomb. A very expensive, very dangerous tomb.

"Just you and me, little man," I whisper, the sound barely loud enough to reach my own ears.

I walk over to the crib, the mahogany looming dark and imposing in the corner. It’s an antique, passed down through generations of Morettis, carved with intricate scrolls and cherubs that seem to watch my every move. I lean over, the rail cool against my forearm, and lower him down. He stirs, a small whimper escaping him, his little hand flailing out for the warmth he just lost. I quickly tuck the soft blue blanket around him, threading my arm through the bars to stroke his back. The rhythm soothes him instantly, his breathing deepening again into the steady cadence of sleep.

I watch him for a long moment. He’s innocent in a way this house hasn’t been in decades. He doesn’t know about the blood money that pays for this silk sheets, or the guns hidden in the study, or the fear that clings to the walls like damp mildew. He just needs to be warm and fed and loved. Something tightens in my chest, a sharp pang of protectiveness that scares me. I can’t afford to get attached. I’m a ghost here, a lie living in a borrowed name.

I pull my arm back gently, careful not to wake him. I grab the baby monitor from the dresser, the black plastic cool in my hand. The screen flickers to life, showing a grainy, green-tinted image of the crib. I watch the pulse of light on the side that indicates sound is being transmitted. Just the static of his breathing.

I back out of the room, closing the door with a soft click. The latch catches without a sound. I stand in the hallway for a second, the monitor clutched against my chest like a shield. The corridor stretches out in both directions, lined with artwork that costs more than my life is worth. Shadows lengthen across the floor, cast by the low lighting of the wall sconces.

My throat is dry, scratchy from reading Matthew stories earlier. I head toward the kitchen, my footsteps silent on the runner rug. The architecture is open and intimidating, the ceilings high enough to make you feel small. I pass the living room, the furniture stark and modern, all leather and chrome. It feels cold, unused. Like a showroom rather than a home.

I push through the swinging door into the kitchen. It’s massive, an industrial-grade stainless steel cavern that could cater a banquet for a hundred people. The island is a slab of black granite. I go to the cabinet, my hand trembling slightly as I reach for a glass. I just need water. Something to wash away the dust of this day.

I fill the glass at the fridge dispenser, the water glugging out, noisy in the quiet house. I take a long sip, the cold liquid shocking my system, waking me up just a little too much. I lean my hips back against the counter, closing my eyes for just a second, letting the exhaustion of the past few weeks wash over me. I’m safe here. I have to be. The alternative is going back to Dmitri, and that isn’t an option.

Then, the sound shatters the quiet.

It’s not a creak, or the wind. It’s the distinct, heavy clatter of the main glass doors sliding open. The ones that lead to the back patio and the yard beyond. My eyes snap open, the glass halfway to my lips. The kitchen is open to the living area, and from here, I can see the wall of glass doors.

Light floods in, harsh and artificial, cutting through the dim ambiance of the house. I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it hurts. I see them first—the soldiers. A swarm of them, moving with disciplined precision across the manicured lawn. They’re dressed in tactical gear, dark vests that bulge with equipment, the dull matte black of assault rifles catching the light. They fan out, securing the perimeter, their faces grim and focused. It looks like a military invasion, not a man coming home.

And then, he walks in.

Luca Moretti.

He steps through the open doors, and the air in the room seems to change, growing heavier, charged with a dangerous voltage. He’s wearing a dark suit, the fabric impeccable except for a faint crease near the hem. He looks like he’s been through hell and back. His tie is loosened, hanging crookedly around his neck, and the top button of his shirt is undone, revealing a hint of the tattoos that snake up his chest.

I can’t look away from his face. He looks exhausted, deep purple bruises smudged under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days. But it’s his hands that catch my attention. His right hand is wrapped in white bandages, stark against his tanned skin, stained slightly with red near the knuckles. Fresh blood. He flexes the hand as he walks, a grimace flickering across his features, testing the injury.

He pauses just inside the threshold, his gaze sweeping the room. The soldiers behind him fan out into the house, boots thudding softly on the expensive floors, checking corners, clearing rooms. It’s terrifyingly efficient.

Then, his eyes lock onto mine.

They are piercing, a sharp, unnatural blue that seems to see right through the glass of water in my hand, through the clothes I’m wearing, and into the terrified soul hiding beneath. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He just stares, his head cocked slightly to the side, like a predator assessing prey.

I force myself to move, to set the glass down on the counter before I drop it. My fingers are slippery with condensation. I wipe them on my pajama pants, trying to compose my face into something resembling the nanny he hired, not the fugitive he might be hunting.

He walks toward me, his movements fluid but predatory. The soldiers ignore me, focused on their sweep, but Moretti’s attention is a laser beam. He stops at the edge of the living area, near the couch. The distance between us feels too small, yet vast enough that I can’t smell him yet. But I can feel him.

"How is my son?"

His voice is calm. Too calm. It’s a low rumble, smooth like velvet but with an edge of steel underneath. It’s the kind of calm that comes right before a storm breaks. He asks about Matthew, but his eyes are scanning my face, looking for cracks in my mask.

I swallow hard, my throat clicking in the silence. "He fell asleep about twenty-five minutes ago."

My voice sounds thin, reedy. I hate it. I clear my throat softly, trying to steady it. "He was tired. He went down easily."

"Okay." He nods once, a sharp, jerky motion. He looks past me, toward the hallway that leads to the nursery, as if he can sense the baby down there. "Did he bother you?"

The question throws me off. Bother me? He’s an infant. "Oh," I stammer, shaking my head slightly. "No, sir. He is just a baby, and he sleeps most of the time."

I watch his hand, the bandaged one, twitch at his side. He’s vibrating with suppressed energy. Adrenaline, or maybe something darker.

"Okay," he says, his eyes snapping back to mine. "He is just eight months old. He was born premature."

The information lands in the room with weight. Premature. It explains the size, the fragility, the way Jenilya treats him like a fragile porcelain doll she’s afraid to break. It explains the fear I saw in Luca’s eyes when he looked down the hall.

"Oh." My eyes widen slightly, genuine surprise flickering through my mask. "I... I didn't realize."

"He's a fighter," Moretti says, his voice dropping an octave, becoming almost a growl. He takes a step closer, into the kitchen proper. The smell of him hits me—sandalwood, expensive cologne, and the sharp, metallic tang of copper. Blood and gunpowder. It’s a terrifyingly masculine scent, overwhelming in the confined space. "Like his mother was."

He looks me up and down, a slow, deliberate perusal that makes my skin prickle with gooseflesh. I feel exposed in my thin pajamas, the soft cotton doing nothing to protect me from the intensity of his gaze.

"Go to sleep," he orders, though it sounds less like a suggestion and more like a command he expects me to obey instantly.

I shake my head, a reflex of defiance that I instantly regret. "I can't."

I shrug, trying to look casual, leaning back against the counter to put a few inches of space between us. "I haven't gotten used to the atmosphere here yet. It will take time to adjust."

I’m lying. I can’t sleep because I’m terrified. Because every time I close my eyes, I see Dmitri’s face, or the muzzle of a gun. But I can’t tell him that.

Moretti’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t buy it. He knows fear. He probably smells it on me, rolling off my skin in waves. He turns away from me and walks into the living room, his shoes sinking into the plush carpet. He sinks onto the couch, spreading his arms wide along the back, owning the space with an arrogant ease.

He sighs, a heavy sound of exhaustion, and reaches into his jacket. My heart stops. I know that shape. I’ve seen it before, held against my temple, pointed at people I used to know.

He pulls out the gun.