The Moretti Debt

By evening, the painkillers wore off, leaving behind a sharp, burning ache that made staying in bed impossible. I slipped my feet onto the hardwood floor, shivering slightly in the oversized cotton shirt someone had dressed me in.

The room was vast, decorated in muted tones of charcoal and silver, with French doors leading out onto a moonlit stone balcony. When I opened the bedroom door, the hallway stretched out endlessly, lined with oil paintings that looked like they belonged in the Met.

As I crept toward the grand staircase, a soft sound caught my attention—a quiet, rhythmic clicking against the floorboards.

I turned around. Standing at the end of the corridor was a little boy no older than six, clutching a stuffed teddy bear. His dark curls fell across his forehead, and his big, luminous eyes stared up at me with a mixture of awe and hesitation.

“Leo?” I whispered, recognizing him from that terrifying split second under the falling crystal.

The boy nodded slowly, taking a small step closer. “Papa said I shouldn't bother you. He said you got hurt saving me.”

My chest tightened. I knelt down, wincing slightly as my back protested the movement, and held out my hand. “I’m glad you’re okay, Leo. Really glad.”

Leo stepped into my arms, burying his face in my shoulder with surprising strength. For a kid who lived in a fortress guarded by armed men, he felt small, fragile, and desperately in need of warmth.

“Don’t leave,” he whispered against my neck. “Bad men come when Papa is busy. But you feel safe.”

Before I could answer, a heavy footstep echoed up the stairs. I looked up to see Dante standing at the top of the landing, watching us with an expression so fiercely protective it took my breath away.

“Leo,” Dante said gently, walking down the steps. “It’s past your bedtime. Let Miss Elena rest.”

Leo pulled back, giving me a shy smile before scurrying down the hall toward his nursery. Dante watched him go, then turned his dark gaze back to me.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Dante said, stepping closer.

“I needed air,” I replied defensively, crossing my arms. “And your son is sweet. He shouldn’t be living in a place that feels like a prison.”