Chapter 6 - The Midnight Fever
Two weeks after the confrontation with Salvatore, winter set in with a vengeance. A massive snowstorm locked Long Island in a blanket of ice and howling winds, cutting off power lines across the coast.
Inside the Moretti estate, the backup generators kicked on, humming softly in the basement, keeping the central heating alive.
At two in the morning, Clara was awakened by a soft cry echoing through the baby monitor on her nightstand.
She immediately sat up, pulled on a plush robe, and hurried down the dark hallway to Leo’s room.
The little boy was twisting in his bed, his sheets tangled around his legs. His face was flushed bright red, his skin slick with sweat.
Clara rushed to his side, placing her hand on his forehead. He was burning up.
“Rico!” she called out, her voice echoing down the corridor as she lifted the whimpering boy into her arms. “Rico, help!”
Within ten seconds, Rico appeared in the doorway, wearing flannel sleep pants and an unbuttoned white shirt, his pistol already in his hand before he realized there was no intruder. He holstered the gun instantly when he saw Leo.
“What’s wrong?” Rico demanded, rushing over.
“He has a high fever,” Clara said, her voice tight with panic. “At least a hundred and three. He’s shivering.”
Rico touched his son’s cheek. “I’ll call Dr. Mercer.” He pulled his cell phone, but frowned at the screen. “The storm knocked out the local tower. No signal.”
“We need to bring his temperature down now,” Clara said, taking charge with a calm efficiency that stunned Rico. “Get a basin of lukewarm water and three clean hand towels from the bathroom. Hurry!”
Rico didn't argue. The powerful capo of Brooklyn ran to the bathroom like an obedient soldier, returning seconds later with a plastic basin filled with water and plush towels.
For the next two hours, sitting on the plush rug in the middle of the nursery, Rico and Clara worked together in silence. Clara gently wiped Leo’s hot arms and face with damp cloths, while Rico held his son tightly against his chest, whispering soft Italian endearments into his hair.
“Sei forte, mio piccolo,” Rico murmured softly, kissing the top of Leo’s damp head. “Papà è qui. Sei al sicuro.” (You are strong, my little one. Dad is here. You are safe.)
By four AM, Leo’s fever finally broke. His skin cooled, his breathing leveled out, and he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep, resting his head across Rico’s lap while holding onto Clara’s hand.
Clara let out a long, exhausted sigh, leaning her head back against the base of the crib.
Rico looked down at her. In the soft glow of the nightlight, she looked beautiful—her face scrubbed clean of makeup, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her eyes filled with absolute, selfless devotion to his child.
“You didn't panic,” Rico said softly, his voice thick with a strange, emotional weight.
“Panic doesn't help when someone you care about is sick,” Clara replied gently, smiling up at him.
Rico reached out, his hand wrapping around hers over Leo’s small blanket. He didn't pull away.
“Thank you, Clara,” Rico whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the back of her hand. “For everything. I don't know what this house was before you came, but I know what it would be without you now. Empty.”
May you like
Clara’s pulse leaped. She looked into his brilliant blue eyes and saw no coldness, no mafia boss, no terror—only a man who was falling deeply, helplessly in love with her.
And as she looked back at him, she realized with a sudden, terrifying clarity that she was falling just as hard for him.
