Chapter 2 - The Woman I Couldn't Replace
Isabella Moretti died beneath Saint Michael's Bridge on a February night.
Officially, her car lost control on black ice.
I never believed that.
Neither did Carlo.
Her armored Mercedes went through the railing at 11:18 p.m.
My sons survived because their seats were reinforced.
Isabella didn't.
Afterward, I did what men like me always did.
I searched for someone to punish.
Mechanics were questioned.
Drivers disappeared into interrogation rooms.
Rival families were investigated.
Every camera between Manhattan and Westchester was examined.
Nothing.
Eventually there was nobody left to threaten.
So I turned to the only thing I could still control.
My empire.
Moretti shipping.
Construction.
Nightclubs.
Private security.
Warehouses.
And businesses that respectable newspapers preferred not to describe.
I worked eighteen hours a day.
Meanwhile, other people raised my sons.
The first nanny lasted four months.
The second lasted eleven weeks.
The third quit after Leo screamed for seven hours because she moved Isabella's photograph.
The fourth lasted three days.
The fifth told me something I nearly fired her for saying.
“Your sons don't need another employee, Mr. Moretti.”
“What do they need?”
“Their father.”
I doubled her severance payment and sent her away.
Then Elena arrived.
No elite agency.
No childcare degree.
No references from senators or billionaires.
She was twenty-nine.
Her mother had cleaned hotels.
Elena had worked in a church kitchen, an assisted-living facility, and later as a housekeeper.
She had been hired to clean the upstairs rooms.
Nothing more.
Yet on her second day, I found Leo following her through the kitchen.
On the fourth, Matteo allowed her to repair his torn stuffed bear.
On the sixth, both boys ate dinner because Elena cut their sandwiches into ridiculous little stars.
I noticed.
I simply pretended not to.
Until the eighth night.
Until Isabella's room.
I waited outside for nearly three hours.
Finally, the door opened.
Elena stepped into the hallway.
She froze when she saw me.
Leo was asleep against her shoulder.
Matteo stood beside her holding the wooden horse.
Elena's face went pale.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Give me my son.”
She hesitated.
That irritated me.
Then I realized Leo was holding her so tightly that separating them would wake him.
“Never mind.”
Elena swallowed.
“I'm sorry about the room.”
“You knew it was forbidden.”
“Yes.”
“You disconnected the camera?”
“No.”
That answer changed everything.
I stood.
Carlo immediately straightened behind me.
“Who did?”
Elena looked at Matteo.
My son lowered his eyes.
I crouched.
The expensive suit tightened across my shoulders, exposing more of the black ink covering my wrists.
“Matteo.”
He said nothing.
“Look at Papa.”
Slowly, he did.
“Did you break the camera?”
He shook his head.
“Did you see who did?”
Another silence.
Then my six-year-old son whispered:
“Uncle Carlo.”
Nobody moved.
I looked over my shoulder.
Carlo's face didn't change.
May you like
That was the problem.
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