Chapter 3 - The Man Who Made the City Tremble|
Dante DeLuca returned three days after the wedding reception.
I knew he had arrived because the entire mansion seemed to stop breathing.
Staff members straightened their uniforms.
Conversations ended.
Even the security guards near the entrance suddenly looked as though they were preparing for a military inspection.
I was in the kitchen helping Nico decorate pancakes with blueberries.
He had decided that ordinary pancakes were boring and that blueberries should be arranged into faces.
Mine looked mildly concerned.
His looked like a suspiciously cheerful potato.
Rosa appeared at the doorway.
"Mr. DeLuca is home."
Nico's spoon fell onto his plate.
The smile vanished from his face.
I put down my coffee.
"Would you like to stay here?"
He nodded.
"Then stay."
Rosa looked startled.
"Mrs. DeLuca, he usually goes to greet his father."
"Usually isn't a law."
I stood, smoothed my blouse, and walked toward the entrance hall.
Dante DeLuca was standing beneath the chandelier, speaking into a phone.
He was taller than I expected, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my father's car.
Dark hair framed a sharply handsome face, and his expression suggested that smiling was an expense he considered unnecessary.
He ended the call when he saw me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then his eyes traveled over my simple jeans and cream sweater.
"Alessia Moretti."
"Dante DeLuca."
"I understand we had a wedding."
"Apparently, you were the only guest who couldn't attend."
One corner of his mouth moved.
"I was in Zurich negotiating an acquisition."
"I hope the acquisition appreciated your presence."
His gaze sharpened.
"You're direct."
"I'm told it's an expensive personality defect."
He studied me for another moment.
Then he said, "My uncle assured me the reception went smoothly."
"Your uncle and I have different definitions of smoothly."
I folded my arms.
"We need to discuss Nico."
Something cold entered his expression.
"What about my son?"
"He's frightened, someone has been punishing him, and he believes people can send him away whenever they're disappointed."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"Who told you that?"
"Nico did."
His answer came too quickly.
"Nico has struggled since his mother's death."
"Grief doesn't explain why he's afraid of being hit."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to bend the walls.
Dante lowered his briefcase onto a table.
"Be very careful about accusing people in my home."
I looked him directly in the eye.
"Be very careful about ignoring a child in yours."
I expected anger.
Instead, something unreadable passed across his face.
"Where is he?"
"Having breakfast."
Dante walked past me toward the kitchen.
I followed.
Nico stood the moment his father entered.
His shoulders rose, and his hands disappeared behind his back.
"Good morning, sir."
Dante stopped.
I saw the exact moment he heard the word.
Sir.
Not Daddy.
Not Dad.
Sir.
"Hello, Nico."
The boy stared at the floor.
"Did you finish your homework?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you been behaving?"
Nico's eyes darted toward me.
"Yes, sir."
Dante looked at the blueberry pancakes.
"Did you make those?"
Nico nodded.
Dante reached toward the boy's head.
Nico flinched so violently that his chair scraped backward.
Nobody moved.
Dante's hand remained suspended in the air.
I watched the blood drain from his face.
"Son?"
Nico whispered, "I'm sorry."
Dante slowly lowered his hand.
"What are you sorry for?"
"I didn't mean to move."
His voice was barely audible.
Dante looked at me.
I didn't say anything.
I didn't need to.
An hour later, we sat inside Dante's office.
Valentina occupied a chair opposite us, looking composed in a pale designer suit.
Dante had summoned her immediately.
"Alessia says Nico has been frightened of physical punishment," he began.
Valentina sighed.
"He's been having episodes again."
I hated that word.
Episodes.
It turned a scared little boy into an inconvenience.
"He has vivid nightmares," Valentina continued.
"Sometimes he invents stories about things that never happened."
Dante leaned back.
"Has anyone used physical punishment?"
"Absolutely not."
"Has he ever been confined in the blue room?" I asked.
Valentina's eyes flashed.
"That's a private calming space."
"Does it lock?"
She hesitated.
"Only for safety."
Dante straightened.
"Whose safety?"
Valentina swallowed.
"Mr. DeLuca, you must understand that children with behavioral difficulties sometimes require boundaries."
"Answer the question."
His voice changed.
It wasn't loud.
It was worse than loud.
"Has my son been locked in that room?"
Valentina glanced at me.
"Occasionally, under supervision."
Dante stood.
The air seemed to leave the office.
"Give me the key."
Valentina remained seated.
"Sir, there are therapeutic records—"
"The key."
Her hands trembled as she removed a small silver key from her purse.
Dante took it without another word.
We walked upstairs together.
Nico waited near his bedroom, holding my hand.
When he saw the key, his expression collapsed.
"No, Daddy."
Dante immediately stopped.
"No one is putting you inside."
Nico squeezed my fingers.
"Promise?"
Dante crouched before him.
For the first time, I saw something resembling fear in the powerful man's eyes.
"I promise."
We opened the door.
The blue room was barely larger than a walk-in closet.
There was a thin mattress on the floor, no windows, and a small camera mounted above the entrance.
The inside of the door had no handle.
Dante stood motionless.
Then he noticed the marks scratched into the wooden wall.
Dozens of tiny lines.
Some formed uneven numbers.
Others looked like letters.
Near the floor, written in shaky handwriting, were five words.
Mommy, please come get me.
Dante pressed one hand against the doorframe.
I heard him inhale sharply.
Behind us, Nico whispered, "I tried to be good, Daddy."
May you like
Dante turned toward his son.
And the man who supposedly frightened an entire city fell to his knees.
