Chapter 5 - The Child’s Drawing On The Floor
The silence in the dining room was absolute, broken only by the heavy, uneven sound of Don Carmine’s cane tapping against the marble floor.
The old man stepped into the room.
His presence commanded a terrifying respect. Even Luca’s most loyal guards lowered the barrels of their weapons slightly.
“Luca,” Don Carmine said, his voice a gravelly rasp. “You are making a mess.”
Luca didn't step back. He positioned himself squarely between the Commission boss and Noah.
“This is my home, Carmine,” Luca replied respectfully, but firmly. “It’s a private family matter.”
“Family matters that involve broken alliances are Commission matters,” the old man countered.
He gestured with his cane toward Carlo Bellini.
Vanessa’s brother was in his late thirties, handsome but pale. His eyes were wide, fixated on Noah. He hadn't blinked since the doors opened.
“Carlo came to me an hour ago,” Don Carmine explained. “He said his sister called him in a panic. Claimed you were threatening her life over a street child.”
“He is my son,” Luca stated flatly.
Carlo finally moved. He took a hesitant, trembling step forward.
“Elena?” Carlo whispered, staring at Noah’s face.
Noah hid behind my legs, clutching my apron tightly.
“Don’t let the scary man look at me, Rachel,” Noah whimpered.
I put my hands protectively on the boy’s shoulders.
Vanessa scrambled out of her chair and ran toward her brother.
“Carlo, thank God you’re here!” she cried, grabbing his arm. “Luca has lost his mind! He’s canceling the wedding over this—this mistake!”
Carlo didn't look at his sister.
He grabbed Vanessa by the wrist, his grip so tight she gasped in pain.
“Is it true?” Carlo asked, his voice shaking with a suppressed, violent emotion. “Is he my son?”
Vanessa tried to pull away. “Carlo, listen to me, he’s nothing—”
“Is he my son?!” Carlo roared, shaking her violently.
Vanessa burst into tears and nodded.
Carlo dropped her arm as if she burned him. He stumbled backward, covering his mouth.
Don Carmine struck the floor with his cane.
“Enough.”
The old man looked at Luca.
“The Bellini family is bound by blood to the Romanos. But a true-born son alters the line of succession. The Commission cannot ignore a blood heir, Luca. The boy belongs with his biological family.”
My heart stopped.
“No,” Luca said.
The single word hung in the air like a drawn blade.
Don Carmine’s eyes narrowed.
“You defy the Commission over an adopted child?”
“I protect my son,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. “He doesn't belong to the Bellinis. He doesn't belong to the Commission. He is a Moretti.”
Carlo stepped forward, desperation in his eyes.
“Luca, please. I never knew. If I had known Elena was pregnant, I never would have let her go. I want my son.”
Noah squeezed his eyes shut.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
He stepped out from behind me and walked slowly toward Luca.
“Daddy?” Noah whispered.
Luca immediately dropped to one knee, ignoring the mafia bosses standing inches away.
“I’m here, buddy.”
Noah held out the piece of paper. It was a child’s drawing, done in crayon.
“I made this for you,” Noah said, his chin trembling. “For your wedding present. But I don't want you to marry the mean lady.”
Luca carefully unfolded the paper.
I could see it from where I stood.
It was a drawing of a house. But not the Moretti mansion. It was a small, normal house with a red roof and a big tree in the yard.
Standing in front of the house were three stick figures.
A tall man in black.
A little boy in a blue sweater.
And a woman wearing a black and white maid’s uniform.
At the top, written in clumsy, nine-year-old handwriting, it said: My Real Family.
Luca stared at the drawing. A tear slipped down his hardened face, splashing onto the paper.
He folded it gently and placed it in his breast pocket, right over his heart.
Then, he stood up.
He looked at Carlo Bellini.
“You want your son?” Luca asked softly.
“He’s my blood,” Carlo pleaded.
Luca nodded slowly.
“Where were you when he was sleeping in a broken crib in the state orphanage?” Luca asked, his voice rising in anger. “Where were you when he cried every time the thunder rolled because it reminded him of the car crash that killed his mother?”
Carlo flinched, looking away.
“Where were you when he finally learned how to sleep through the night without screaming?” Luca demanded. “You didn't earn him. You don't deserve him.”
Don Carmine frowned.
“Blood is blood, Luca. You will hand the boy over, or the Moretti family will be stripped of its seat at the table. You will lose your territories, your businesses, and your protection.”
The room held its breath.
Luca was being asked to choose between his empire and his son.
Luca didn't even hesitate.
He reached down to his right hand. He gripped the heavy, gold signet ring that bore the Moretti crest—the symbol of his power, his wealth, and his life's work.
He pulled it off his finger.
And he threw it onto the marble floor.
It clattered loudly, rolling until it hit Don Carmine’s cane.
“Keep the territories,” Luca said.
Vanessa gasped.
Carlo stared in shock.
But Luca turned around, walked over to me, and gently placed his hand on the small of my back.
“Take Noah,” Luca whispered to me. “We’re leaving.”
But before we could take a step, a deafening gunshot shattered the crystal chandelier above us.
Glass rained down like diamonds.
I screamed, pulling Noah under the table.
I looked up through the falling glass.
Vanessa Bellini was standing in the center of the room, her makeup smeared, her eyes completely unhinged.
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She had snatched a gun from one of her brother’s guards.
And she had it pointed directly at Noah.
