Chapter 4 - The Fortress on Long Island
By 2:00 AM, the convoy cleared the heavy wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate in Oyster Bay.
The mansion rose out of the coastal fog like a granite citadel—thirty-two rooms of gray limestone overlooking the dark, churning waters of Long Island Sound. Armed security details stood at thirty-yard intervals along the cedar-lined driveway, their tactical radios crackling in low, disciplined bursts.
Mrs. Ferrara, the estate’s veteran head housekeeper, met us in the grand foyer beneath the soaring vaulted ceilings.
"The master guest suite in the east wing is prepped, Don Dominic," Mrs. Ferrara reported, taking our wet coats with quiet efficiency. "Warm vegetable broth, fresh bread, and heated flannel linens are set for the little one."
Dominic carried Lily up the sweeping marble staircase.
My daughter was still sound asleep, her thumb tucked firmly into her mouth, her cloth rabbit Mr. Buttons resting against Dominic’s silk lapel.
I followed behind them, feeling the surreal weight of the night crashing down upon my shoulders. Four hours ago, I was managing triage tags in a chaotic hospital basement; now, I was walking down a corridor lined with antique oil paintings and bullet-resistant French doors, flanked by the most feared man on the Eastern Seaboard.
In the east wing suite, a massive fieldstone fireplace was already roaring with seasoned birch logs.
Dominic laid Lily gently in the center of an enormous four-poster bed draped in soft down quilts. He pulled the blankets over her shoulders, tucked Mr. Buttons beneath her arm, and reached out to brush a stray dark curl from her forehead with an instinctive, paternal reverence that made my breath catch in my throat.
He turned to me where I stood by the foot of the bed.
"The bathroom is stocked with clean clothes and fresh towels, Clara," Dominic said quietly. "Eat the soup. Sleep. My men hold the perimeter. Nothing touches this room."
"Why are you doing this, Dominic?" I whispered, leaning against the bedpost, searching his unyielding gray eyes. "You don't owe me anything. We had an arrangement for a blind date set up by a mutual friend. You could have handed that notebook to your lawyers and left me in Queens with an armed guard."
Dominic walked toward the door, pausing with his hand resting on the heavy brass handle.
He looked back over his shoulder.
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"Three hours ago, your daughter sat across from me at Beluchi’s and offered me twelve dollars to make sure her mother didn't have to cry in the kitchen anymore," Dominic replied softly. "In my world, Clara, people trade millions of dollars for betrayal and blood. But an honest promise from a five-year-old girl is the only currency I respect."
He stepped into the corridor, closing the heavy oak door until the lock clicked shut.
