Chapter 3 - Beneath the Oak Table
Aleandro Moretti sat motionless in the vast, vaulted dining hall, his eyes fixed on the cold leather folder containing the Genua logistics reports. The silence of the room was his armor, a heavy cloak he wore to keep the memories of hospitals, sterile sheets, and the sound of falling rain at bay. Every corner of this estate was haunted by the phantom laughter of a little girl who would never grow up. He poured himself another cup of espresso, though he knew he wouldn't drink it, his mind calculating supply chain routes and rival syndicate movements across the eastern seaboard.
Then, a faint sound broke the sacred stillness of the hall. It wasn't the heavy tread of Marco Bellini's boots, nor the measured steps of the housekeeping staff. It was a soft, sliding patter, followed by a muffled gasp of childish wonder.
Aleandro’s hand froze inches from his coffee cup. His head snapped toward the massive mahogany dining table—a colossal piece of furniture carved from a single ancient oak, draped in heavy damask cloth that fell in deep folds almost to the marble floor.
Beneath the heavy overhang of the table, a pair of small, bright eyes peered out from the shadows.
For a terrifying second, Aleandro’s breath caught in his throat. In the dim light beneath the table, the shape of the curls, the tilt of the small chin, looked hauntingly, impossibly like a memory he had tried to bury in the damp earth of a Boston cemetery. His heart hammered violently against his ribs—a sensation he hadn't felt in years. Was he losing his mind? Was grief finally manifesting physical hallucinations in the cold light of day?
"Who's there?" Aleandro’s voice was a low, dangerous growl that could shatter glass, yet beneath the fury, it trembled with a vulnerability he hadn't shown to any living man.
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The small shadow didn't run. Instead, a tiny hand reached out from beneath the dark tablecloth, clutching a battered cloth rabbit with one crooked ear. A small, angelic face emerged into the pale morning light, blinking up at the most feared man in New York with absolute, disarming innocence.
"Bunny dropped his shoe," the little girl announced gravely, her voice small and sweet. "He wants to see the big shiny floor."
