Chapter 2 - The Man Inside the HouseVincent did not take Luca to his penthouse.
The first time was in his heart.
The second was beneath six feet of frozen New York earth.
Every October 17, no matter who was waiting for him, no matter how much money stood to be made or how many enemies wanted him dead, Vincent went alone to St. Michael’s Cemetery in Queens.
Five years had passed since the accident.
Five years since a black SUV carrying his six-year-old son, Luca, had gone through a guardrail during a storm and disappeared into the East River.
Five years since divers recovered a child’s body wearing Luca’s silver Saint Christopher medal.
Vincent had identified him by the clothes.
He had not been allowed to see the boy’s face.
The medical examiner had advised against it.
The injuries were too severe.
Vincent had believed them.
That mistake would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Rain misted the cemetery that morning as Vincent walked toward the black marble headstone.
LUCA ANTHONY MORETTI
BELOVED SON
2014–2020
He placed twelve white roses beneath his son’s name.
“You would’ve been eleven,” he murmured.
His voice broke on the final word.
No one in New York ever heard Vincent Moretti’s voice break.
To the city, Vincent was something between a businessman and a ghost story.
People lowered their voices when they spoke his name.
Politicians returned his calls.
Men who had spent their lives intimidating others suddenly remembered manners when Vincent entered a room.
Yet beside Luca’s grave, none of that mattered.
He was only a father.
A father who had failed to save his child.
“I’m sorry,” Vincent whispered.
A twig snapped behind him.
Vincent’s hand moved instinctively beneath his coat.
He turned.
A boy stood twenty feet away.
Thin.
Dirty.
Maybe eleven years old.
His gray hoodie was several sizes too large, and the knees of his jeans were torn through. Wet brown hair hung over his forehead.
He looked like a child who had slept outside.
Vincent scanned the cemetery.
No adults.
No car.
No obvious threat.
“You lost?” Vincent asked.
The boy said nothing.
He stared at the grave.
Then at Vincent.
His face was pale from cold.
Something about his eyes made Vincent uncomfortable.
Dark brown.
Almost black.
Like Elena’s.
Vincent’s late wife had possessed those eyes.
“Kid?”
The boy took one step closer.
Vincent noticed a scar beneath his left eyebrow.
His chest tightened.
Luca had gotten a scar there when he was four after falling from the kitchen counter while stealing cookies.
Vincent stopped breathing.
Impossible.
The boy’s lips trembled.
“Dad.”
Vincent froze.
Rain whispered against the leaves.
“What did you say?”
The boy looked toward the cemetery entrance as if terrified someone might be following him.
Then he rushed forward.
Vincent’s bodyguards, stationed discreetly outside the gates, began moving.
Vincent raised one hand.
Stop.
The boy came within three feet.
“I said…” His voice cracked. “Dad.”
Vincent stared at him.
“No.”
The boy swallowed.
“My name is Luca.”
The world tilted.
Vincent’s knees almost gave out.
“You don’t get to say that name.”
“I know about Mom’s blue music box.”
Vincent went still.
The boy continued rapidly.
“It was in her closet behind the winter blankets. She used to let me wind it even though you said I’d break it.”
Vincent’s face drained of color.
Nobody knew that.
Nobody.
“Stop.”
“And when I couldn’t sleep, you made chocolate milk, but you always burned it because you heated it too long.”
Vincent took a step backward.
The boy’s eyes filled with tears.
“You called me Little Wolf.”
Vincent felt something tear open inside his chest.
Only three people had ever heard that nickname.
Vincent.
Elena.
And Luca.
Elena had been dead for seven years.
Vincent whispered, “Where did you hear that?”
The child slowly lifted his left hand.
His little finger was slightly crooked.
Broken during a soccer game at age five.
Vincent remembered sitting beside Luca in the emergency room while the boy screamed that he never wanted to play soccer again.
Two weeks later he had begged for a new ball.
Vincent stared.
The cemetery disappeared.
The rain disappeared.
For five years he had dreamed of this face growing older.
Now it stood in front of him.
Thin.
Bruised.
Terrified.
Alive.
Vincent sank to his knees on the wet pavement.
“Luca?”
The boy began crying.
Vincent reached toward him, then stopped, afraid to touch him.
Afraid the child would disappear.
Luca closed the distance himself.
He threw both arms around Vincent’s neck.
Vincent made a sound no man around him had ever heard.
A broken, choking sob.
He clutched the boy against his chest.
“My God.”
Luca buried his face against his father’s shoulder.
“I tried to come home.”
Vincent squeezed his eyes shut.
“I buried you.”
“I know.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“I know.”
Vincent pulled back enough to look at him.
“Who took you?”
Fear replaced relief on Luca’s face.
He glanced toward the cemetery gate.
“We have to go.”
“Who took you?”
Luca grabbed Vincent’s coat.
“Dad, please.”
Vincent had spent decades recognizing terror.
He knew the difference between nervousness and the kind of fear carved into bone.
His son had the second kind.
Vincent stood.
“No one is touching you again.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
Luca looked at the grave carrying his own name.
Then he whispered the sentence that turned Vincent’s blood cold.
“The boy in that coffin wasn’t me.”
Vincent stared at him.
May you like
Luca’s voice became almost inaudible.
“And the man who put him there still works for you.”
