Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Manhattan
Six months passed, and New York learned to live without Serena Moretti.
In the high-stakes world of the five families, a missing wife was a scandal that quickly became old news, replaced by a brutal turf war between the Morettis and the Romano syndicate. The photograph from Sicily had done its work; the old dons whispered that Lucian had grown soft, distracted by his mistress and his missing heir, and they began to push against his northern borders.
But Lucian was not soft. He was empty, which made him far more dangerous.
He spent his nights in the study of his penthouse, the walls covered in topographical maps of the northeast, dental records of unidentified infants, and financial surveillance logs of every person Serena had ever spoken to. He had spent three million dollars on private investigators, but it was as if his wife and son had walked off the edge of the earth.
"We found something in Boston," Marco said one evening, stepping into the dark study. He laid a photograph on the desk. It showed a woman with dark hair walking through a park, pushing a stroller.
Lucian didn't even pick it up. "That's not her."
"Lucian, the height matches, the hair—"
"The hair is too short, and her gait is wrong," Lucian said, his voice flat. "Serena carries her weight on her left heel when she’s tired from her old knee injury. This woman walks straight. It’s not her."
Marco sighed, rubbing his face. "The Romanos are moving on the Bronx docks tomorrow, Lucian. We need you at the warehouse. The captains are getting restless. They think you're hunting a ghost while the house burns down."
"Let them think what they want," Lucian said, standing up and walking to the window. The city below him was a sea of glittering lights, but to him, it felt like a cage. "The Romanos are small men, Marco. They want money. They want territory. I can take that back in a week. But my son... my son is growing up without knowing my name."
In Vermont, Nico was learning to crawl.
The red-brick farmhouse had become a home. Serena had taken a job at the local library, using her maiden name, Serena Riley, while Elena worked the morning shift at a diner three miles down the highway. The town of New Hebrides was small enough that people didn't ask questions about a quiet single mother with a dark-haired baby and a sister who looked like she was waiting for a war.
"Look at him," Elena said, pointing to the rug where Nico was currently pushing himself up on his hands and knees, his target a small wooden blocks set three feet away. "He's going to be walking by Christmas."
Serena smiled, her face fuller now, her skin tanned from a summer spent in the garden behind the house. She had learned to chop wood, to fix the old oil heater when it sputtered, and to live without the constant, suffocating weight of the Moretti guards outside her door.
But she had not learned to forget.
Every time a black sedan passed the library, her breath caught in her throat. Every time the telephone rang after 9:00 PM, her hand shook as she lifted the receiver. She knew Lucian wouldn't stop looking. A man like him didn't accept a loss; he interpreted it as a declaration of war.
"He’s starting to look like him, Serena," Elena said quietly, her voice tentative.
Serena didn't look away from her son. "I know."
Nico had Lucian’s dark, heavy brows and the sharp, intelligent line of his mouth. When he was frustrated by a toy, his jaw would clench in the exact same way Lucian’s did before he broke a man’s career. It was a terrifying reminder that no matter how far she ran, the blood in her son's veins would always belong to the Ghost of Manhattan.
"Do you regret it?" Elena asked.
May you like
Serena walked over, lifting Nico into her arms and burying her face in the sweet, clean scent of his neck. He let out a loud, bubbly giggle, his tiny hands grabbing her hair.
"Never," Serena said. "Even if he finds us tomorrow, Elena. He had six months of peace that he never would have known in New York. That’s worth everything."
