It bounced off the white marble walls, climbed toward the vaulted ceilings trimmed in gold, then crashed back down into the heart of the Moretti mansion in New York City.
This wasn’t the fussy cry of a spoiled child.
It was raw. Primal. The kind of pain that makes grown adults feel helpless.
In the center of obscene luxury, inside a hand-carved Italian crib worth more than most people’s cars, ten-month-old Luca Moretti twisted and arched his tiny body in agony. His blanket was pure silk. His pajamas were imported organic cotton. His last name carried weight in rooms where people whispered instead of spoke.
And still, none of it could buy him a single peaceful breath.
Every brush of fabric against his skin made him shriek. His cheeks were wet. His fists clenched tight. His skin burned red and irritated, as if the world itself had turned against him.
Across the room, his father stood by a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Hudson River.
Dominic Moretti.
Tailored suit. Steel-gray eyes. The kind of man whose silence was more threatening than most people’s shouting. Officially, he was an “import-export businessman.” Unofficially… he was the shadow behind deals that never appeared on paper.