Chapter 3 - The Wardrobe of the Normal
The sun had barely crested the high iron gates of the Moretti estate when Maria Alvarez stood outside the guest dressing wing, staring in disbelief at the rack of clothing delivered by the household staff.
There were no maid’s uniforms here. Instead, soft cashmere sweaters, tailored denim, sensible walking shoes, and light spring jackets hung neatly in a row. A note in Marco’s immaculate handwriting rested on top: Compliments of the house. Enjoy your day.
Maria touched the fabric of a cream-colored cardigan with trembling fingers. Ever since Miguel’s heart had given out on that Manhattan construction site, life had been a relentless march of unpaid bills, cheap instant noodles, and the gnawing terror of eviction. Luxury was a foreign language she had long forgotten how to speak.
“Mama! Look! Shoes with sparkles!”
Sophia burst into the room wearing a pair of brand-new white sneakers adorned with tiny silver stars—sneakers that had miraculously appeared outside their cottage door before dawn.
Maria pulled her daughter into a fierce hug, burying her face in Sophia’s sweet-smelling hair. A knot of anxiety twisted deep in her stomach. Men like Aleandro Moretti did not perform acts of charity without a ledger. In her world, favors always came due, and debts were paid in blood or silence.
At 7:55 AM, Maria and Sophia stepped out onto the gravel driveway.
Aleandro was already waiting. Gone was the immaculate, suffocating funeral suit of black wool. He wore a dark charcoal crew-neck sweater over a crisp white collared shirt, dark jeans, and leather driving shoes. Without his jacket, his broad shoulders and lean, powerful frame were even more pronounced, but the absence of his shoulder holster—or at least the visible bulge of it—made him look dangerously human.
He stood beside a midnight-blue vintage Alfa Romeo Spider with the top down.
Sophia gasped, her eyes going wide. “Is that your car?”
Aleandro looked down at her, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. “It is.”
“It’s red-blue,” Sophia declared authoritatively. “Like a blueberry.”
“It’s midnight blue, Sophia,” Maria corrected quickly, her face flushing crimson. “Mr. Moretti, I am so sorry—she has no filter—”
“It’s fine,” Aleandro interrupted, opening the passenger door. He looked at Sophia. “Can you climb in, or do you need me to lift you?”
“I can do it!” Sophia announced, scrambling onto the plush leather seat with a burst of childish energy.
Maria climbed into the back seat behind them, her hands nervously smoothing her skirt. As Aleandro slid behind the steering wheel and turned the ignition, the engine purred to life with a deep, throaty rumble that vibrated through the chassis.
From the second-story window of the east wing, Marco Ricci watched through a pair of high-powered binoculars. He tracked the Alfa Romeo as it glided down the winding driveway and disappeared through the iron gates.
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Marco lowered the binoculars, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a burner phone. He dialed a ten-digit number that didn't exist in any corporate directory.
“They’re on the move,” Marco murmured softly into the receiver. “Route B through Long Island City. Make sure the reception committee is waiting near the park. And make it look like an accident.”
