The Moretti Debt

The public fallout from the charity gala was hitting the morning news cycles with a vengeance. Tabloids and financial networks alike were buzzing with rumors about the structural failure at the Manhattan ballroom, speculating wildly about rival real estate developers and underground syndicates.

I sat on the velvet sofa in the sunroom, watching a news anchor drone on about corporate safety violations while nursing a fresh cup of tea.

A sharp knock sounded at the arched doorway. Leo peeked in, holding a box of colored pencils and a sketchpad.

“Can I sit with you?” he asked quietly.

“Of course, sweetheart,” I smiled, patting the cushion beside me.

Leo climbed up, opening his sketchbook to a drawing he had been working on all morning. It was a crayon sketch of three figures standing under a very bright, very sturdy yellow sun: a tall man with dark hair, a smaller woman with long hair, and a little boy holding a teddy bear.

My chest ached. I knew I couldn't stay here forever. Once my back healed and the immediate threat blew over, I would have to pack my imaginary bags and return to my real life—rent hikes, cramped subway cars, and lonely shifts.

“Do you like it?” Leo asked, tilting his head.

“It’s beautiful, Leo,” I said softly, blinking back an unexpected sting of tears. “Your dad is going to love it.”

“I made it for us,” Leo corrected, looking up at me with deadpan seriousness. “Papa said you’re staying with us until the bad men go away. But I want you to stay forever.”

Before I could formulate a safe, comforting response, the heavy front doors downstairs slammed open with a violent crash, followed by the sound of shouting voices and drawn weapons.