Chapter 1 - THE BREATH HE COULDN'T TAKE
Three years earlier, on the night everything changed, Lucas Moretti believed he was going to lose a warehouse.
He had no idea he was about to lose his family.
“Boss,” Victor Romano said, standing in the doorway of the study. Rain glistened on the shoulders of his dark coat. “The Jersey warehouse is under attack. You need to come now.”
Lucas looked up from his desk. “Who?”
“We don't know yet. The men on the east side say there are at least twelve armed men.”
“Call Daniel's driver. Have him take Isabella and the boy to the north residence.”
Victor hesitated. “Your wife is already at the north residence?”
“No. She's here. That's why I told you to call.”
“Of course.”
Lucas reached for his jacket. “And get me the camera feed from Jersey.”
Victor nodded and left.
Lucas paused at the doorway. Isabella was in the sunroom, playing a quiet melody on the piano. Their five-year-old son, Daniel, was asleep on the couch with a picture book resting on his chest.
“I have to go,” Lucas told her.
“Now?”
“There's trouble at the warehouse.”
“Send someone else.”
“I would if I could.”
She crossed the room and straightened his tie. “Come home.”
He kissed her forehead. “Always.”
Daniel stirred. “Daddy?”
Lucas bent and kissed his son's hair. “Go back to sleep, champ. I'll bring you a truck.”
Lucas left through the private garage.
The drive to Jersey took thirty-five minutes. When he arrived, the warehouse was quiet. No gunfire. No broken windows. No sign of an attack.
His men were waiting in the loading bay.
“Where are the attackers?” Lucas demanded.
The first guard looked confused. “We haven't seen anyone, boss.”
Lucas turned toward Victor.
“You said the warehouse was under attack.”
“I received a call.”
“From whom?”
Victor did not answer quickly enough.
Lucas's phone rang. The number belonged to the mansion's security office.
“Boss,” a guard shouted, “there's been an explosion at the north residence.”
For a moment, Lucas heard nothing but rain.
“What?”
“Fire in the east wing. We can't reach Mrs. Moretti or Daniel.”
Lucas ran.
When he reached the estate, smoke was pouring above the roofline. Firefighters were forcing their way through the front entrance. The windows of the sunroom had shattered.
Lucas pushed past a firefighter. “Isabella!”
A guard grabbed his arm. “Boss, you can't go in.”
“Get off me!”
“It's not safe!”
Lucas fought him until two more men restrained him.
He saw a small blue blanket on the lawn.
Daniel's blanket.
He stumbled toward it and dropped to his knees.
A firefighter approached, his expression grave. “We found one adult in the east corridor. We haven't identified her yet.”
“Where's my son?”
“We're still searching.”
Lucas stared at the burning house. He remembered the piano, the book on the couch, the little boy who had asked for a truck.
Then he turned toward Victor.
“Who knew my family was here?”
Victor's face was pale. “Only the security team.”
“Find out who did this.”
Victor placed a hand on his shoulder. “I swear, boss. I'll find them.”
Lucas did not know Victor had arranged the false attack, disabled the estate cameras, and sent the security team to the wrong entrance. He had also arranged for a second vehicle to remove a small child from the property before the explosion.
The fire had been meant to erase the evidence.
But Isabella had survived the first blast.
And Daniel had not been in the house when the fire began.
Three years later, Lucas still believed both of them were dead.
***
The present returned with a sharp sound against marble.
Lucas's shoulder struck the hallway floor.
His inhaler lay several feet away.
His lungs had tightened without warning. He tried to draw air, but his chest refused to cooperate. The corridor blurred. Somewhere above him, a chandelier seemed to sway.
Then came a small voice.
“Mister, are you sick like me, too?”
Lucas forced his eyes open.
A little girl in pink pajamas knelt beside him. She had dark curls, bare feet, and a child-sized inhaler in her trembling hand.
“Who...” he tried.
“I’m Lily.”
She pressed the inhaler carefully against his lips.
“Please don't die, mister.”
The first breath barely came. The second was ragged. On the third, his chest rose.
Lucas coughed, then dragged air into his lungs.
The girl began to cry.
“You're breathing,” she whispered. “You're breathing now.”
Lucas looked at her.
He recognized the small pink inhaler. It was not his. It was a child's rescue medication, carried in a plastic case decorated with yellow stars.
“Where's your mother?” he rasped.
Lily pointed toward the service corridor. “She said to stay in the laundry room.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I heard you fall.”
Footsteps thundered from the far end of the hall.
Victor Romano appeared with two guards.
His expression changed when he saw Lucas awake.
For one fraction of a second, disappointment crossed his face.
Then it vanished.
“Boss!”
Victor rushed forward.
Lucas raised one weak hand. “Don't touch me.”
Victor stopped.
Lucas looked at the little girl.
“She saved my life.”
May you like
Victor glanced at Lily, then at the inhaler.
And for the first time in three years, the man who had planned the Moretti family's destruction understood that a child could become a witness more dangerous than any armed enemy.
