Chapter 2 - The Shadow of the Don
Giovanni Moretti watched the young woman leave Room 4B, the heavy door clicking softly into place. Inside his paralyzed frame, a flame burned white-hot—a fire that hadn't raged since he ruled the five boroughs with an iron fist.
For five long years, Giovanni had been a prisoner inside his own skin. When the catastrophic stroke took his ability to speak and walk, his doctors assumed his mind was gone, too. His ambitious, cold-hearted son, Lorenzo, had moved the empire's headquarters to Manhattan, leaving his father in this upstate mountain fortress under the care of high-paid staff.
Lorenzo thought he was providing luxury. He had no idea he had left his father at the mercy of monsters.
Mrs. Gable was the ringleader. Giovanni remembered the day she stole his late wife’s gold pocket watch off his nightstand, assuming he didn't understand. He remembered the young male servant who had shoved him roughly into his chair, laughing when Giovanni’s head cracked against the frame. He remembered being left in the freezing dark for thirty-six hours because the staff wanted to spend the weekend drinking in the staff quarters.
They believed he was a ghost. They thought he was already dead.
Then came Nora.
Giovanni remembered the first day she walked into his room three months ago. She hadn't looked at him with disgust or fear. She had looked at him with profound, gentle empathy. She had noticed his icy hands before anything else.
Over the weeks, Giovanni had listened intently to every word she spoke. He learned about her dead mother, her scoundrel ex-boyfriend Brody who had left her in crippling debt, and the heavy physical pain she endured daily just to earn enough for a crib. He saw the purple bruises on her delicate wrists—marks left by Mrs. Gable’s harsh grip whenever Nora moved too slowly.
If I could speak, Giovanni thought, his jaw clenching beneath his frozen skin, I would command an army to tear this house down.
Suddenly, heavy, hurried footsteps echoed down the grand corridor outside his room. The door burst open without a knock.
Mrs. Gable rushed in, her face pale, her usual sneer replaced by pure panic. She didn't look at Giovanni; she grabbed the heated blanket off his lap—the blanket Nora had bought with her own money—and ripped it away, stuffing it brutally into a closet.
"Get rid of this trash," Mrs. Gable muttered frantically to herself, smoothing down her hair. "He can't look pampered. He needs to look helpless."
She leaned down, her foul breath washing over Giovanni’s face. "Listen to me, old fool. Your son is coming. The Blizzard of the Century is hitting the mountain, and Lorenzo is coming home. You keep your mouth shut like you always do, or I’ll make sure that pregnant little friend of yours finds herself out in the snow before nightfall."
Giovanni’s dark eyes locked onto hers. A cold, lethal glint flickered in the depths of his pupils.
Mrs. Gable shuddered slightly, feeling a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the winter draft, but she brushed it off, sneering before rushing back out to line up the servants.
May you like
Giovanni’s fingers twitched on the armrest of his wheelchair. Lorenzo was coming. His ruthless, terrifying son was returning to the estate.
Come home, Lorenzo, Giovanni thought, his heart pounding like a war drum against his ribs. Come home and see what they have done to my house... and see the angel who saved your father's life.
