Chapter 4 - THE GIRL IN THE STRAWBERRY DRESS
Elena returned home two days later.
The apartment was exactly as terrible as she remembered.
Radiator barely warm.
Mold stain near the bedroom window.
Mila’s mattress on the floor.
The bakery bread sat on the counter.
One loaf remained.
Elena stared at it.
Then someone knocked.
Her body went rigid.
“Who?”
“Victor.”
She opened the door.
He took one look at the apartment and said nothing.
Good choice.
“What?”
“Alessandro asked me to deliver documents.”
“No money?”
“No money.”
“Good.”
Victor handed her a folder.
Then another.
Insurance records.
Raven payroll.
Safety emails.
Property-management correspondence.
At the bottom, something unexpected.
A letter.
Handwritten.
From Alessandro.
Elena almost refused to read it.
Then did.
Elena,
Your husband reported danger three times.
People whose contracts ultimately enriched my family ignored him.
I will not ask you to forgive what I did not directly do, nor excuse what I failed to see.
The attached records are yours.
If they harm me, use them.
— Alessandro Moretti
Elena read the final sentence twice.
If they harm me, use them.
People rarely handed over weapons against themselves.
Powerful men almost never did.
That did not make him good.
It made him interesting.
Three days later, Alessandro left the hospital.
Against medical advice.
Of course.
He did not return to his Beacon Hill mansion.
Too exposed.
Victor arranged a smaller secure house outside Boston.
Mila called it “the boring house.”
Elena learned because Alessandro called her.
“Why do you have my number?”
“You called my phone.”
“Right.”
Silence.
“How are you?”
“Alive.”
“Mila asked.”
“Of course.”
He hesitated.
“She can visit.”
“No.”
“Understood.”
Another pause.
Elena surprised herself.
“Maybe Sunday.”
Alessandro said nothing.
“You still there?”
“Yes.”
“You sound weird.”
“No one has ever scheduled a playdate with me.”
“It is not a playdate.”
“Understood.”
Sunday, Elena brought Mila.
The house had too many guards.
Elena stopped at the driveway.
“No.”
Alessandro came outside slowly, one hand against his ribs.
“What?”
“She is not walking through six armed men.”
He looked around.
Then at Victor.
“Send them away.”
Victor stared.
“Sir.”
“Perimeter only.”
“Elena—”
“She’s right.”
Within two minutes, the front path was empty.
Mila approved.
Inside, she discovered Alessandro had no crayons.
A moral failing.
“I don’t have children.”
“You have paper?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should have crayons.”
Logic.
Alessandro ordered crayons.
Elena glared.
“You are not buying a store.”
“One box.”
“One.”
He looked wounded.
Mila drew three people.
Mama.
Mila.
A tall black-haired man with purple stitches.
“That’s you.”
Alessandro studied it.
“I look terrible.”
“You were hurt.”
Fair.
Then Mila asked:
“Do you have kids?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Elena closed her eyes.
Alessandro answered:
“I was busy.”
“That’s not a reason.”
He looked at Elena.
“Your daughter is brutal.”
“She gets it from her father.”
The sentence changed the room.
Mila kept drawing.
Alessandro asked quietly:
“What was he like?”
Elena stared at him.
“You read his file.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
She looked toward Mila.
“Daniel was funny.”
“Funny how?”
“Bad jokes.”
“Excellent.”
“He sang in the car.”
“Badly?”
“Terribly.”
Mila smiled.
“He made pancakes shaped like dinosaurs.”
Alessandro listened.
No defensiveness.
No attempt to enter the memory.
Just listened.
That mattered more than Elena wanted it to.
Then Victor entered.
His face was grim.
“Alessandro.”
Something happened.
The warmth disappeared instantly.
“What?”
“Matteo knows we have the ledger.”
Elena stood.
“Then we leave.”
“Yes,” Alessandro said.
Immediately.
No argument.
Mila frowned.
“But my picture.”
Alessandro picked it up.
“I’ll keep it.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
Elena grabbed Mila’s coat.
Before they reached the door, Alessandro said:
“Elena.”
She turned.
“If anything happens—”
“No.”
He stopped.
“You don’t get to make us part of your war.”
“I know.”
“Then end it without bringing it here.”
His face changed.
That was the first time anyone had ordered Don Alessandro Moretti to make his world safer for a five-year-old.
And the terrifying part was—
May you like
he wanted to obey.
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