Chapter 4 - Room 804
The Moretti Grand was a towering structure of dark granite and gold-tinted glass overlooking the Boston harbor.
When the Range Rover pulled up under the glowing marquee, two uniformed valets rushed forward, bowing their heads deferentially as James stepped out. They didn't glance twice at my faded coat or the worn canvas duffel bag Marco was carrying behind us.
We stepped into the lobby. It was a palace of warm light, polished marble floors, massive crystal chandeliers, and a twenty-foot Christmas tree decorated with gold and silver ribbons. The air smelled of fresh pine, cinnamon, and luxury.
The night manager behind the mahogany front desk stood up instantly, bowing his head. "Mr. Moretti. Good evening, sir."
"Key for Suite 804," James commanded as he walked past the desk without slowing down, still carrying Chloe in his arms.
The manager didn't ask for a credit card, an ID, or a reservation form. He immediately grabbed a gold-embossed keycard from a locked drawer and handed it to Marco, who followed us toward the private elevators.
We rode the elevator to the top floor in complete silence. The gold-plated doors slid open to reveal a carpeted hallway lined with high-end oil paintings.
Marco tapped the keycard against the lock of Suite 804 and swung the heavy mahogany door open.
I gasped as I stepped inside.
The suite was larger than my entire apartment building floor. It featured floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the snow-covered city and the black waters of the harbor. A massive marble fireplace crackled with a warm, automated gas fire in the living area. The furniture was plush ivory velvet, and in the corner stood another fully decorated Christmas tree, glowing softly with warm yellow lights.
"Put her in the bedroom," James instructed Marco, nodding toward the master suite.
I followed James as he carried Chloe into the bedroom. He laid her down on a king-sized bed covered in Egyptian cotton sheets and a thick goose-down duvet. He unbuttoned his heavy coat from around her, tucked her gently into the warm covers, and stepped back.
Chloe sighed in her sleep, burying her face into the soft pillows, warm and completely safe.
I stood near the foot of the bed, hugging my arms around myself, feeling completely overwhelmed. "Mr. Moretti... this is too much. This room must cost thousands of dollars a night."
"It costs whatever I say it costs," James replied casually, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves down. "The kitchen on the ground floor is open twenty-four hours for room service. Order whatever you want. Order the whole menu if you're hungry."
He turned to leave, walking toward the suite's foyer.
"Wait," I called out, following him into the living area.
James stopped, turning his head to look at me.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mixture of confusion and exhaustion. "I'm nobody. I scrub floors in one of your buildings. You don't know me. Why would you go to all this trouble for a stranger on Christmas Eve?"
James stared at me for a long time. The warm light from the fireplace flickered across his hard features, casting deep shadows over his eyes.
"When I was seven years old," James said quietly, his voice lower than I had ever heard it, "my father lost his first business. We got evicted on a Tuesday in the middle of January. We slept in a rusted Buick behind an auto shop for three days before my uncle found us."
He paused, his eyes fixing on mine.
"I remember what it feels like to sit in the cold and watch your parent pretend everything is okay when it isn't," James murmured. "I promised myself a long time ago that as long as I breathed, no child in this city would go through that if I could stop it."
My heart squeezed tight in my chest. All the stories I had heard about James Moretti—the ruthless mobster, the cold-blooded boss—seemed to fracture right before my eyes, revealing a deeply buried wound that he carried beneath his expensive suits.
"Thank you," I whispered, tears brimming in my eyes once more. "Thank you, James."
It was the first time I had called him by his first name.
A subtle shift occurred in his eyes. He stared at me for a beat longer than necessary, his gaze lingering on my face.
"Get some sleep, Grace," he said softly. "Marco will be posted outside your door all night. You are safe here."
He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a heavy gold money clip holding a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and set it on the marble entryway table.
"Don't touch that," I said quickly, pointing at the money. "I can't take your money."
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"It's not for you," James said flatly, pulling open the suite door. "It's for Chloe's Christmas. Buy her some toys tomorrow."
Before I could object, he stepped out into the hallway and shut the heavy oak door behind him, leaving me alone in the warm, quiet luxury of Suite 804.
