Chapter 4 - The Boy Who Knew Too MuchI did not scream.
That felt important somehow.
Maybe because screaming would wake Matteo. Maybe because the house was full of armed men who might belong to Dante or might belong to whoever had slid that note beneath my door.
Or maybe because fear had become so familiar in my life that it no longer came out loud.
I folded the paper once, then twice, as if making it smaller could make it less real.
You saved the wrong son.
Wrong waitress survived.
She should have looked away.
The sentences circled one another inside my skull until they became a cage.
Matteo stirred on the bed.
“Clara?”
I shoved the note into the pocket of the oversized sweatshirt.
“I’m here.”
He blinked at me in the dim room, his dark eyes heavy with sleep.
“Did the bad glass come back?”
My heart cracked a little.
“No, sweetheart. It’s gone.”
He sat up anyway, clutching the pillow. “Sometimes bad things come back when grown-ups say they won’t.”
I looked at him for too long.
Five years old.
Too young to know that.
I moved carefully to the bed and sat on the edge, swallowing the pain that flashed through my back.
“Who told you that?”
He shrugged one small shoulder.
“Nobody.”
“Matteo.”
His gaze dropped.
Children lie differently than adults. Adults build walls. Children hide under blankets and hope you won’t lift the corner.
I softened my voice.
“Did something bad come back before?”
He rubbed the sleeve of his pajamas between two fingers.
“The lady with the red nails.”
A strange coldness moved through me.
“What lady?”
He looked toward the locked door.
“Papa says not to talk about her.”
“Then you don’t have to.”
I meant it.
I did.
But Matteo kept going in the whisper of a child who had carried a secret too big for his little body.
“She came when Mama was still here. She smelled like flowers that hurt my nose. She had red nails, long like claws. Papa didn’t like her. Mama cried after.”
My pulse slowed.
“What happened to your mama?”
His mouth trembled.
“She went away in the black car.”
“Who was driving?”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t supposed to see. I was hiding.”
I could barely breathe.
Outside the room, the hallway remained silent.
Inside, the fire popped softly in the hearth.
“Matteo, did you tell your papa?”
He nodded. “He said I had bad dreams.”
The words were simple.
The damage was not.
I understood suddenly that Dante Moretti, for all his power, had missed something because grief had blinded him. Or because everyone around him had convinced him a traumatized toddler could not know what he saw.
“What else do you remember?”
Matteo’s fingers curled around mine.
“The man with the shiny watch.”
My body went still.
“At the restaurant?”
“No. At Mama’s room.”
“What shiny watch?”
He thought hard, eyebrows knitting.
“It opened. Like this.”
He made a small motion with his thumb.
A pocket watch.
My mind flashed to Aurelios. Not tonight’s destroyed dining room, but the booth. The men. The champagne tray. The falling glass. Marcus reaching for his phone.
Then another image surfaced from the chaos.
A man I had served once months ago. Polished shoes. Silver hair. A black suit. A pocket watch he had opened and closed while waiting for Dante Moretti, though Dante never arrived.
I had noticed because nobody under seventy carried pocket watches anymore.
“Matteo,” I whispered, “do you remember his face?”
He shook his head. “He smiled without teeth.”
A knock struck the door.
Not loud.
Not gentle.
Three controlled taps.
Matteo launched himself against me so suddenly pain exploded through my back. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out.
“Clara?” Dante’s voice came from the hallway. “Open the door.”
Relief came first.
Then suspicion followed.
“What did you call me at the restaurant?” I asked.
Silence.
Then Dante answered, “My responsibility.”
I unlocked the door.
Dante stepped inside with Rafe behind him. His eyes went first to Matteo in my arms, then to my face, then to the way my hand was shaking.
“What happened?”
I pulled the folded note from my pocket and gave it to him.
He read it.
Nothing about him moved.
That frightened me more than rage would have.
Rafe leaned in, and Dante passed him the paper.
“Who came to this floor?” Dante asked.
Rafe’s expression was grim. “Nobody authorized.”
“Find the camera gap.”
“Already on it.”
Dante looked at me. “Did you see anyone?”
“A shadow. Male, I think. They paused outside the door.”
His eyes sharpened. “You think?”
“I was bleeding a lot tonight. Forgive me for not profiling the footsteps.”
Rafe made a sound that might have been a cough hiding a laugh.
Dante did not find it funny.
Then Matteo whispered, “Papa.”
Dante’s face changed when he looked at his son.
“What is it?”
Matteo pressed closer to me.
“I remembered the watch.”
Dante froze.
The reaction was small but devastating.
“What watch?”
“The shiny one. From Mama’s room.”
Dante looked at me.
I held Matteo tighter, less for his comfort than mine.
“He told me about a lady with red nails,” I said carefully. “And a man with a pocket watch.”
Dante’s face drained of all warmth.
“Matteo,” he said, voice controlled with visible effort. “Why are you talking about this now?”
Matteo’s eyes filled.
“Because the bad glass came back.”
Those six words broke something in the room.
Dante sat on the bed like his knees had forgotten pride. He reached for his son, but Matteo hesitated, torn between his father and me.
The hesitation hurt Dante.
I saw it before he hid it.
“It’s okay,” I whispered to Matteo. “Go to your papa.”
The boy crawled into Dante’s arms.
Dante closed his eyes for one brief second as he held him.
Then he looked at me over Matteo’s head.
“My wife’s death was ruled an accident.”
“What kind?”
“Car crash.”
“Was she alone?”
“My driver died with her.”
“Did she leave from this house?”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“With a woman with red nails and a man with a pocket watch?”
Dante said nothing.
But his silence answered.
Rafe’s phone buzzed. He read the message, then his face hardened.
“Dante.”
“What?”
“We found the hallway camera loop. Someone played four minutes of old footage.”
“When?”
“Between the time Vincent arrived and the time the note was delivered.”
Dante stood slowly, Matteo still in his arms.
“Where is Vincent now?”
“West sitting room. Waiting.”
“Alone?”
“No. With Mrs. Vale.”
Something flickered across Dante’s face.
Not fear.
Betrayal smelled different.
“Take Matteo to the nursery,” he said.
“No!” Matteo cried, clinging to him.
Dante’s voice lowered. “Rafe will stay with you.”
“No, Papa, don’t go where the bad man is!”
The room went silent.
Dante looked down at his son.
“What bad man?”
Matteo’s lower lip trembled.
“The man with the shiny watch.”
Dante did not breathe.
Neither did Rafe.
I moved before I thought, taking Matteo gently from Dante before the child could see what his words had done to his father.
Dante turned toward the door.
“Dante,” I said.
He stopped.
“If Vincent has the watch, don’t confront him alone.”
His eyes met mine.
“I am never alone.”
“You know what I mean.”
For a moment, the wall between us thinned.
Then he walked back to me, so close I had to tilt my head.
“You saved my son once tonight,” he said. “Do not make the mistake of thinking you must save everyone.”
My laugh was bitter. “Then stop putting wounded people in front of me.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
Only for a second.
Long enough to change the air.
Then Rafe’s phone buzzed again.
His voice turned sharp.
“Dante. Vincent is gone.”
The words landed like a gunshot.
Dante turned.
Rafe continued, “And Mrs. Vale is unconscious in the west hallway.”
Matteo whimpered.
Dante looked at his son, then at me.
The next decision took one heartbeat.
“Clara,” he said, “lock the door and do not open it for anyone but me.”
This time, I did not argue.
Because over Dante’s shoulder, through the narrow opening of the door, I saw something lying on the hallway carpet.
A silver pocket watch.
May you like
Open.
Ticking.
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