Chapter 5 - The Wedding Aftermath & The Threat
The fragile peace inside the Staten Island estate shattered on a rainy Thursday night.
Clara had already finished her lesson and was waiting in the foyer for her usual car service to take her back to Queens when the heavy oak front doors flew open.
Vance rushed inside, his dark suit soaked with rain, followed by two other armed guards dragging a third man between them. The man’s face was bruised, his clothes torn, and blood dripped from his nose onto the pristine marble floor.
“Boss!” Vance shouted toward the stairs. “We got a runner near the East Gate. He was planting a packet.”
Dante appeared at the top of the grand staircase, descending swiftly with the dark, terrifying grace of a predator. He didn’t look like a grieving father or a wealthy businessman now. He looked like the head of the Commission.
“Bring him into the study,” Dante ordered, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
Clara froze by the coat rack, her fingers clutching the strap of her bag. “I should go. Call me a cab; I’ll take the subway—”
“Stay,” Dante said, not even looking back as he walked past her toward his private office. “Vance, make sure Miss Bennett doesn't leave the foyer.”
“Mr. Moretti, I am not your employee!” Clara protested, stepping forward. “I am a music teacher—”
“You are inside my house when a security breach just occurred,” Dante cut her off, turning his cold, frozen-lake eyes toward her for a fraction of a second. “That makes you my responsibility. Stay put.”
The heavy mahogany doors of the study slammed shut, muffling the sounds of shouting and interrogation that followed.
Clara stood by the marble pillar, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wanted to run out the front door, but she knew Vance and the other guards would stop her before she reached the gravel driveway. Besides, her mind kept flashing to Leo upstairs in his room, completely unaware that violence had just crossed his threshold.
Ten minutes later, the study door clicked open.
Dante stepped out. His coat was off, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, corded forearms. There was a smear of dark blood—not his own—across the cuff of his white shirt.
He walked straight toward Clara.
“The car is outside,” Dante said, his voice unnervingly calm. “Vance will drive you home himself.”
“What happened?” Clara asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Was that... was that Marcone?”
“Sal Marcone sends his regards,” Dante said grimly, picking up her coat from the bench and holding it out for her. “He wanted me to know that he’s aware I have a new weakness.”
Clara stared at the coat, then up at Dante’s face. “A weakness?”
“You,” Dante said simply. “At the wedding, you made a scene. You stopped the music. You made it clear to everyone in that room that Dante Moretti’s household could be challenged by a girl in a blue dress. And tonight, Marcone tested to see if you were just a guest or something more.”
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Clara felt a chill run straight down her spine. “I’m not your weakness, Mr. Moretti. I’m a tutor. This has nothing to do with me.”
“Everything that enters my house becomes part of my war, Clara,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a low, intense register as he draped the coat over her shoulders. His hands brushed against her neck, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “And I don’t lose what’s mine.”
