Chapter 10 - Fifth Avenue in the Snow
The heavy brass revolving doors of Bergman’s department store pushed outward into the twilight chill of Fifth Avenue.
The city had transformed while they were inside. A gentle, quiet snow had begun to fall over Manhattan, dusting the limestone cornices of the high-rises and settling like powdered sugar along the emerald boughs of the grand window displays. Yellow cabs crawled through the slush, their headlights casting warm amber beams through the swirling flakes, while the festive crowds drifted along the sidewalks beneath strings of illuminated white stars suspended between the lampposts.
Clara stepped out onto the wide granite sidewalk, holding Rosie’s hand.
Rosie refused to put her winter boots back on. She had insisted on wearing her crimson satin shoes, her white ankle socks tucked neatly inside, her small steps clicking softly against the dry stone beneath the store's grand awning. In her other hand, she clutched the crimson velvet presentation box like an ancient treasure chest, containing her old Mary Janes and her precious red pencil.
Beside the curb, idling with the quiet, purring hum of a six-figure engine, sat a sleek black armored Mercedes Maybach.
Dominic stood beside the open passenger door, his heavy cashmere coat catching the falling flakes of snow on its wide shoulders. He had buttoned the coat against the wind, but his collar remained open, his thick dark hair tousled slightly by the lake breeze blowing across the island.
He looked at Clara, who stood wrapped in her white plush stole, her blonde curls dusting with white powder, her porcelain skin glowing rosy and radiant in the amber streetlights.
“My driver will take you home to Brooklyn, Clara,” Dominic said, his American accent smooth and unyielding against the city noise. “The transit is a mess tonight. No daughter of mine—no artist of mine—walks through the slush on Christmas Eve.”
Clara stepped toward the car, then paused. She reached into her cream quilted bag, pulling out a small, simple business card: Clara’s Hearth Artisanal Bakery — Greenpoint, Brooklyn. She extended it toward him with fingers that had finally stopped shaking.
“If you ever find yourself across the river, Mr. Moretti,” Clara said softly, a genuine, beautiful smile lighting up her face. “We have fresh sourdough at dawn. And warm cinnamon rolls at seven.”
Dominic took the card. His large fingers brushed against hers, a brief, electric warmth that lingered between them in the freezing air. He looked down at the simple paper, then slid it into the interior breast pocket of his coat, right over his heart, beside Rosie’s folded drawing.
“I’ll be there on Tuesday, Clara,” Dominic murmured, his dark hazel eyes holding hers with an unshakeable promise. “Save me a corner table.”
He leaned down, tapping the tip of Rosie’s small nose with his index finger. “Merry Christmas, little artist.”
“Merry Christmas, King Dominic!” Rosie beamed, throwing her free arm around his neck for a quick, fierce hug that caught the mob boss completely off guard.
Dominic stiffened for a fraction of a second, entirely unaccustomed to human affection that didn't carry a price. Then, slowly, with an agonizing tenderness, his large, scarred hand came up to rest gently against the back of her head, patting her light-brown curls before stepping back to let her climb into the leather-scented warmth of the Maybach’s interior.
Clara climbed in beside her daughter, the heavy door clicking shut with the vault-like thud of reinforced steel, sealing them inside a sanctuary of warmth and quiet luxury.
Through the tinted glass, Rosie pressed her face against the window, waving frantically, her red hair bow bouncing, the ruby buckles on her new shoes catching the amber glow of Fifth Avenue.
Dominic stood alone on the snow-covered sidewalk.
The cold wind whipped around his coat, but he did not feel it. He reached inside his pocket, his calloused fingertips lightly touching the textured vellum of the drawing resting against his ribs. Behind him, Salvatore stepped up to the curb, cell phone in hand.
“Boss,” Salvatore said quietly. “Don Falcone is on the line. He says the meeting at the Plaza cannot wait until morning.”
May you like
Dominic watched the taillights of the Maybach merge smoothly into the southbound traffic, disappearing into the white curtain of falling snow. A slow, lethal, and utterly confident smile spread across his handsome, stubbled face.
“Tell Falcone to wait,” Dominic said, turning his back on Fifth Avenue and stepping toward the second town car. “Some things are more important than business.”
