Chapter 4 - The Carriage House
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He raised one of Nora’s freezing hands and pressed it gently between his large, calloused palms to warm it.
“You did nothing wrong, piccolina,” he murmured.
“But the shirt—”
“I have a hundred other shirts. They do not matter.”
“Mama doesn’t have another job,” Nora cried, the tears falling faster now.
Her answer was so agonizingly simple, so devastatingly honest, that it destroyed the very last wall of Luca’s legendary control.
Luca bowed his head.
The first tear slipped from his eyelashes and struck the back of Nora’s tiny hand.
He had not cried at his father’s funeral when the casket was lowered into the earth. He had not cried when his older brother disappeared during the absolute worst, bloodiest year of the Ferraro family war. He had not cried when a trauma surgeon looked at his chart and told him the bullet lodged near his spine might leave him unable to ever walk again.
But kneeling on the wet, soapy floor before a frightened, desperate child who believed her mother’s literal survival depended on a clean cuff, the ruthless boss of the Ferraro family began to weep.
Nora stared at him in profound shock.
Then, without hesitation, she stepped closer and wrapped both of her small arms tightly around his neck.
Her wet, soapy cheek pressed firmly against his rough jaw.
“Don’t be sad,” she whispered into his ear. “Mama says sad gets smaller when somebody holds it.”
Luca closed his eyes, his chest heaving with silent, ragged breaths. He could smell cheap children’s strawberry soap and harsh laundry powder in her hair.
For several long seconds, he did not move. He let the child anchor him to the earth.
Then, he opened his eyes, the cold, protective instincts of a boss rushing back to the surface. He lifted her effortlessly into his arms, ignoring the water soaking into his shirt.
“Show me exactly where your mother is,” he commanded.
They left the laundry room and walked out into the biting chill of the courtyard. Nora buried her face in his neck to hide from the wind. Luca marched directly toward the old carriage house, his eyes fixed on the small window above the garage.
He kicked the wooden door open, climbing the narrow stairs two at a time.
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Elena Vega was completely unconscious when Luca entered the cramped apartment.
She lay curled tightly beneath a thin, worn blanket, her beautiful face flushed a deep, unhealthy red with fever. A glass of tap water sat untouched on the nightstand. Beside it were two cheap, over-the-counter fever-reducing tablets, still sealed in their foil packaging.
