13. Leander
Leander
I know I’m dreaming the moment the iron gates of the Moretti estate slide open in complete silence, without the familiar grinding scrape against the gravel drive.
Twelve-year-old me is sitting on the cold leather back seat of a dark sedan, staring down at my canvas sneakers.
My mother’s apartment building is three miles behind us, wrapped in flashing red light bars and yellow crime scene tape.
Her blood is still dry under my fingernails from when I tried to press my hands over her chest to stop the bleeding.
Roberto walks out of the front doors, his tailored overcoat draped over his shoulders, his face carved out of granite. He doesn't hug me or ask if I'm hurt. He just grabs my wrist with an iron grip, pulls me out of the sedan, and guides me down the long hallway to his private library.
He sits behind his desk, lights a cigar, and looks at me across the amber flame of his lighter.
"Crying doesn't bring anyone back, Leander," Roberto says, his deep voice cutting through the silent room. " If you want to survive in this world, you learn how to bleed without making a sound. Strength keeps you alive. Everything else is a vulnerability."
I wake up in my bedroom with a sharp intake of air.
My heart thumps against my ribs like a trapped bird, my palms damp against the linen sheets. I lie flat on my back, staring up at the quiet shadow of the ceiling fan until the room settles back into reality.
Five-forty-five in the morning.
I roll out of bed, drag a hand over my jaw, and walk out into the hallway.
By eight in the morning, I pull my sedan up to the curb two blocks from Metro General. Kara is already standing near the sidewalk, wearing a navy coat, her leather tote bag over her shoulder, her hair pulled back into a neat clip.
I unlock the passenger door, and she steps inside, the crisp morning air following her into the warm cabin.
“Good morning, counselor.” I greet as I kiss her briefly on the lips.
“Good morning, Doc. You look like you didn't sleep," she says as she pulls back from the kiss, pulling off her gloves and setting them in her lap.
"I slept enough." I pull out into the morning traffic. I glance over at her profile, my eyes scanning her jawline, her neck, her hands. "Is everything alright? You’re fidgeting a lot.”
“Vicenzo cornered me at the hospital yesterday. I didn’t tell you about it immediately because I didn’t want you to worry.”
I hit the brakes on the car so hard we almost flew out of the car. I put my arm in front of her to steady her and turn my head to look at her. “What? He did what? Did he touch you?”
"No," Kara replies. "He tried to intimidate me in the courtyard. I told him about the Dock Fourteen non-compliance filings, and he warned me to watch my neck."
Even after warning him, he still went after Kara. He needs to be stopped.
"Watch your neck," I repeat, my right hand gripping the steering wheel tight enough to feel the leather seam under my fingers.
"It was a cheap threat," she turns her head to look at me, her eyes clear and sharp. "He's losing his grip, Leander. He's desperate."
"Desperate men make stupid decisions," I say, starting the car and changing lanes with a smooth flick of the wheel. "Where is your father right now?"
"At the estate," Kara pulls a manila folder from her bag. "He has a ten o'clock meeting with his harbor managers. If we want to tear up this contract, we do it in front of him before he submits the commercial transit guarantees to Roberto."
"Then that's where we're going," I mutter.
"Leander," Kara mutters, her tone turning measured, businesslike. "My father is terrified of losing the Moretti alliance. He's going to yell, he's going to threaten my job, and he's going to try to push back."
"Let him yell," I shrug. “And please, let me worry. Everything about you concerns me, not telling me about it will only make me worry more. Promise me that anytime anything happens you’ll tell me immediately?”
“I promise.” She smiles sweetly.
The drive to the Rossi estate takes twenty-five minutes. The iron gates are open for morning deliveries, a delivery van unloading crates near the side entrance. I pull my sedan straight up the driveway, stopping right near the front steps, and cut the engine.
Kara steps out of the car before I can reach her door. She straightens her coat, holds her legal binder tight against her ribs, and walks up the stone steps with the quiet, unshakeable composure that I've come to rely on.
The old estate manager opens the front door. His eyes widen when he sees Kara, then shift nervously to me standing behind her.
"Miss Kara," Lorenzo stammers, stepping back. "Your father is in the study with—"
"I know where he is, Lorenzo," Kara says smoothly, stepping past him into the marble foyer. "Thank you."
We walk down the main corridor toward the glass-walled conservatory at the back of the house.
Antonio Rossi is sitting at an iron garden table, surrounded by tropical ferns and blooming orchids, three thick binders spread out in front of him. He has a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, a pen in his hand, a cup of black coffee at his elbow.
He looks up when our heels click against the stone tile.
The second his eyes register my frame standing beside his daughter, his posture goes rigid. He sets his pen down with a loud snap.
"Kara," Antonio barks out, his face darkening instantly. "What is the meaning of this? Why is Roberto's bastard standing in my conservatory?"
"Good morning to you too, Father," Kara says, her voice calm and level as she steps up to the table. She sets her manila binder down right over his shipping manifests. "We're here to settle the betrothal contract."
Antonio scoffs, standing up from his chair so fast it screeches against the floorboards. "There is nothing to settle! The agreements are signed! Don Roberto has the transit filings, and Vincenzo is waiting for the public announcement!"
"The contract is invalid, Antonio," I step forward until I'm standing two feet from the edge of his table. My hands rest casually in the pockets of my coat, my posture completely still. "And Kara isn't marrying Vincenzo."
Antonio turns his furious glare on me, his chest heaving under his tailored vest. "You have no standing here, Sartori! You're an outcast! You gave up your rights to the Moretti name to play doctor in a city clinic!"
"I don't want the Moretti name," I tell him. "And I don't give a damn about your shipping docks. But if you try to force Kara into a marriage with Vincenzo, I will personally hand the state waterfront commission thirty pages of non-compliance logs for Dock Fourteen."
Antonio's face drains of color in two seconds flat. He looks at me, then snaps his head toward Kara.
"You gave him the harbor logs?" Antonio whispers, his voice shaking with sudden, genuine panic. "You gave an outsider our commercial filings?"
"I didn't give him anything," Kara replies. "I reviewed those filings myself when I worked for the state bar. You signed non-compliant tonnage waivers for three years, Father. If I submit those documents to the federal auditor, Don Roberto's harbor warehouses get frozen for ninety days."
"You would ruin your own family!" Antonio yells, pointing a trembling finger at her face. "Do you have any idea what Vincenzo will do to us if this deal falls apart? He will burn our transport lines to the ground! He will destroy my business!"
"Vincenzo is a coward," I say, stepping an inch closer, putting my body between Antonio's finger and Kara.
"You don't know him, Leander!" Antonio shouts, his hands shaking as he grips the edge of the table. "You don't know what Roberto will do if we break a signed agreement! The Don doesn't negotiate with renegades!"
"The Don doesn't need to negotiate," a deep, gravelly voice echoes from the arched doorway behind us.
The entire conservatory goes dead quiet.
I turn my head toward the glass doors leading from the formal dining room.
Don Roberto Moretti steps into the conservatory. Behind him, standing near the doorframe with his arms crossed, is Cosimo.
Antonio Rossi looks like he's about to throw up. He steps back against his chair, bowing his head slightly. "Don Roberto... I didn't know you were still in the house."
"Cosimo and I were finishing the revised harbor schedules in your library, Antonio," Roberto says smoothly, his gaze passing over Rossi like he's a piece of furniture, before settling directly onto me.
Roberto walks slowly into the center of the room. His face is completely unreadable, the same cold stone mask he wore when I was twelve years old sitting in his library.
"So," Roberto starts, looking at Kara, then back at me. "My second son comes to demand a blessing."
"I didn't come for a blessing, Father," I correct. "I came to tell Antonio that the betrothal is dead."
Roberto lets out a short, quiet breath through his nose. He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a silver cigar case, and pops the latch open with a soft metallic click.
"You think it's that simple, Leander?" Roberto asks, holding my gaze as he lights the cigar. "You think you can walk into a business arrangement that took years to construct, wave a legal file in an old man's face, and walk away clean?"
"I don't care how long it took to construct," I reply, my voice dropping hard and firm. "She isn't part of it."
Roberto takes a slow pull of his cigar, blowing a thin ribbon of blue smoke toward the glass ceiling.
"Antonio is right about one thing," Roberto says, his tone shifting into an authoritative register that commands absolute obedience.
"Vincenzo is furious. He considers this contract an insult to his standing.
If you pull this girl out of the agreement today, he will turn the eastern district into a battlefield to prove he can't be pushed around. "
"Let him try," I say softly.
Roberto steps an inch closer to me, his dark eyes narrowing into sharp slits.