Chapter 2 - The House of LionsA cold shockwave ran down my spine as I stared at Vincent.
“How did you know that?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I never told you what the driver was wearing.”
Vincent didn't answer me. He simply gestured toward the private side entrance of The Velvet Vault, a heavy steel door that was currently being held open by a young, visibly nervous associate in a dark suit.
“Inside, Elena,” Vincent said quietly, his tone no longer aggressive, but laced with a dark, suffocating urgency. “Now. Before someone sees you standing out here on the street.”
I looked down at Noah. He was shivering violently against my chest, his small hands still tightly clutching the lapels of my coat. I had no reason to trust Vincent Moretti—a man whose name was whispered in hushed, fearful tones across the city—but the freezing rain was turning into sleet, and Noah couldn't survive another hour in the cold.
I took a deep breath and stepped past the threshold into the building.
The interior of the private entrance was unlike anything I had ever seen. The air smelled of rich leather, polished mahogany, and expensive cigars. Soft, warm amber lighting illuminated plush velvet carpets and heavy gold-framed oil paintings lining the corridor. It was a world of unimaginable wealth and absolute secrecy—a world that people like me were usually only allowed into to scrub the floors or serve drinks.
Vincent followed us inside, closing the heavy steel door behind him. The loud, metallic click of the electronic lock engaging sounded like a vault door sealing shut.
“Take us to the private suite on the third floor,” Vincent ordered the young associate. “And bring hot tea, broth, and clean blankets. Do not inform anyone on the main floor that I have returned.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti,” the young man replied, bowing his head slightly before hurrying down the hallway.
Vincent led me toward a private, carpeted elevator bank hidden behind a silk tapestry. We stepped inside, and the elevator glided silently upward. Throughout the ride, Vincent stood near the control panel, his arms crossed, his intense dark eyes fixed entirely on Noah.
When the elevator doors slid open on the third floor, we stepped into a luxurious, soundproof private suite. A roaring fire crackled in a large stone hearth, throwing warm, golden light across deep leather armchairs and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
“Set him down on the sofa,” Vincent said softly, stepping aside.
I carefully set Noah down on the plush velvet cushions. The moment his feet touched the sofa, he pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, watching Vincent with wide, terrified hazel eyes.
I sat right beside him, rubbing his small back. “It's okay, Noah. You're safe here. The fire is warm.”
A quiet knock sounded at the door, and the young associate entered carrying a silver tray with a steaming pot of tea, a bowl of hot chicken broth, a platter of small sandwiches, and two thick, soft cashmere blankets.
“Leave it on the table,” Vincent instructed. “Then stand outside that door. If Daniel or any of his men approach this hallway, notify me immediately on my private line.”
The associate looked surprised, but nodded quickly. “Understood, sir.”
Once the door was closed and locked from the inside, Vincent poured a bowl of broth and handed it to me. I accepted it and carefully held the spoon for Noah. The little boy was so hungry that he didn't protest; he eagerly swallowed the warm broth, his small body slowly relaxing under the comfort of the food and the heat from the fireplace.
Vincent stood by the hearth, watching us in complete silence. He had removed his heavy overcoat, revealing the immaculate cut of his dark suit and the subtle, expensive gold watch on his wrist.
“He trusts you,” Vincent observed quietly, his voice breaking the silence.
“He's a frightened five-year-old child who was dumped in an alley like trash,” I replied, wiping Noah's mouth with a napkin. “He trusts anyone who doesn't yell at him or grab his arms.”
Vincent lowered his head slightly, a flicker of genuine remorse crossing his hard features. “My guard, Daniel... he was executing standard security protocol. We receive dozens of extortion attempts every month.”
“That doesn't give him the right to put his hands on a child.”
“No,” Vincent agreed smoothly, raising his dark eyes to meet mine. “It doesn't. And Daniel will be dealt with properly once I have the full truth of what happened three nights ago.”
Vincent walked over to a small mahogany cabinet, pulled out an ancient leather-bound album, and set it on the coffee table in front of us. He opened the cover to a yellowed black-and-white photograph depicting a magnificent stone estate surrounded by iron gates. Mounted on the center of those gates was a massive, hand-carved golden lion holding a heavy brass key in its jaws.
Noah's eyes instantly locked onto the photograph. His breath hitched in his throat, and he pointed a small, trembling finger at the picture.
“The lion house,” Noah whispered softly.
Vincent froze. His dark eyes darted from the photograph to the little boy.
“That is the Moretti family estate in Upstate New York,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a low, strained whisper. “It hasn't been used in over fifteen years. Only four people in the entire world have access to those grounds.”
I looked from the photograph to Vincent. “Who?”
Vincent didn't answer my question directly. Instead, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his personal smartphone, and swiped through a private photo gallery. He turned the screen toward us.
The photograph displayed on the screen showed a tall, handsome man in his early thirties with dark hair, sharp features, and warm hazel eyes. He was standing beside a younger Vincent, both of them dressed in tuxedos, smiling at a gala event.
The moment Noah saw the face on the screen, he let out a sharp gasp and shrank back into the sofa cushions, hiding his face behind my arm.
“That's the man from the car,” Noah sobbed softly. “That's the man who told me to stay in the alley and not make a sound!”
My blood ran completely ice-cold.
I turned my head to stare at Vincent. The billionaire mob boss looked as if he had just been struck by a physical blow. The color drained from his face entirely, leaving him pale as a corpse. His hands shook so violently that his phone nearly slipped from his grip.
“Vincent...” I whispered, horror rising in my chest. “Who is that man?”
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Vincent swallowed hard, his jaw clenching so tightly that the muscles in his neck strained against his collar.
“That is Richard Moretti,” Vincent whispered, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated anguish. “My older brother. And the undisputed head of the Moretti Crime Syndicate.”
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