Chapter 5 - The Heir's Shadow
Don Vittorio’s laughter evaporated instantly, replaced by the hard, unyielding mask of the Moretti patriarch.
"Take the child home, Miss Ward," the old Don said quietly, not looking at her. "Julian will see you to the door."
Josie didn't hesitate. She grabbed Poppy's hand, hoisted her heavy tool bag over her shoulder, and moved quickly toward the exit. But as she reached the threshold of the salon, Julian stepped squarely into her path.
He didn't touch her. He didn't have to. His sheer physical presence—tall, immaculately tailored, smelling of cold ozone and expensive leather—blocked the entire frame.
"A word, Miss Ward," Julian said.
"My daughter needs to eat dinner," Josie replied, keeping her voice steady, though her heart was hammering against her ribs.
Julian looked down at Poppy. His dark eyes softened by an imperceptible fraction—not warmth, but a measured curiosity. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pristine fifty-dollar bill, and held it out to the little girl.
"Poppy," Julian said smoothly. "Go with Marco at the end of the hall. He has imported Italian almond biscotti in the kitchen. Take two."
Poppy looked at the bill, then up at her mother with wide, questioning eyes.
"She doesn't take money from strangers," Josie said sharply.
"I’m not a stranger," Julian replied, his obsidian eyes locking directly onto Josie's. "I'm the man paying for this piano. Go on, Poppy. Your mother will be right behind you."
Josie swallowed her pride. She nodded gently to Poppy. "Just to the kitchen door, baby. Don't touch anything."
Poppy took the bill, skipped down the marble hallway, and disappeared around the corner under the watchful eye of the guard named Marco.
The moment the child was out of earshot, Julian closed the heavy mahogany doors, sealing them inside the dim anteroom.
"Your name is Josephine Claire Ward," Julian said, his voice smooth and detached, reciting facts from an invisible ledger. "Born in South Boston. Father was Thomas Ward, a master woodworker and piano technician who died owing four hundred thousand in commercial liens. Mother passed twelve years ago. You married Elliot Vance six years ago. He was a junior accountant who developed acute myelogenous leukemia."
Josie felt the blood drain from her face. "You ran a background check on me."
"I run background checks on the people who deliver my water, Miss Ward," Julian said, taking a slow step toward her. "Your husband died twenty-two months ago in Tufts Medical Center. He left you with sixty-one thousand four hundred dollars in personal guarantee debt. You work six days a week, your bank account currently holds three hundred and twelve dollars, and your daughter has a progressive congenital mitral valve prolapse that requires an eighty-thousand-dollar transcatheter repair."
"Stop," Josie breathed, her hands balling into fists inside her coat pockets. "Stop it."
"Beacon Bay Mutual denied your second appeal yesterday at four-fifteen," Julian continued relentlessly, his voice devoid of pity. "Their medical board classified Poppy as 'stable non-acute.' Which means they are waiting for her to go into congestive heart failure before they pay out."
"Why are you doing this?" Josie demanded, her voice shaking with suppressed fury. "What do you care about my daughter? You're a loan shark. You take businesses from desperate men while they thank you for it! Leave us alone!"
Julian didn't blink. He stepped closer, until he was standing barely a foot away. He was tall enough that Josie had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze.
"I don't care about your daughter, Miss Ward," Julian said quietly. "I care about my family."
"Then go talk to your family."
"My uncle has less than three weeks to live," Julian said, dropping his voice so low it barely vibrated through the cold air. "His lungs are calcifying. The Moretti syndicate controls four hundred million dollars in legitimate real estate, logistics, and port facilities across New England. Beneath that, we control the peace between five different factions who would turn the North End into a slaughterhouse the second he stops breathing."
"What does that have to do with me?" Josie asked, bewildered.
"Vittorio’s will contains an ironclad testamentary trust," Julian explained, his jaw tightening slightly. "Drafted forty years ago when his brother died. Under the terms of the trust, the primary assets cannot pass to an unmarried heir. If I am not legally married with a designated household by the time the probate court certifies his death, the entire estate defaults to an executive committee."
He paused, his dark eyes boring into hers.
"And the head of that committee is Salvatore Castiglione. A psychopath who thinks the way to run a city is with car bombs and extortion."
Josie shook her head, backing up until her shoulder blades hit the heavy wood of the door. "Then marry one of your socialites. Marry a mob boss’s daughter. Marry whoever you people marry!"
"A woman from the families comes with brothers, uncles, and debts," Julian said coldly. "She comes with a bloodline that wants a piece of my empire. If I marry into the syndicate, I invite a Trojan horse into my bedroom."
He reached out. His leather-gloved finger brushed a stray strand of hair from Josie's forehead. His touch was surprisingly gentle, though it sent a shiver of pure ice down her spine.
"I need someone outside the blood," Julian murmured. "Someone with no powerful relatives. Someone clean. Someone who understands the value of silence."
Josie slapped his hand away. "Find somebody else."
Julian didn't look offended. He simply reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a heavy cream-colored business card with a direct private number embossed in silver. He slipped it into the front pocket of her coat.
"You're a good mother, Josie," Julian said softly. "A mother will do things for her child that an army couldn't force her to do."
"I won't sell myself to you," Josie spat.
May you like
"You're not selling yourself," Julian whispered, stepping back and reaching for the brass doorknob. "You're running out of time."
***
