Chapter 2 - ECHOES IN THE FORTRESS
The morning sun didn't reach the nursery. It was a tactical decision, Dante had explained during breakfast—windows facing the perimeter were a vulnerability. Sera had simply nodded, her mind already spinning with ways to bypass his paranoia. By noon, she had ordered a delivery of soft, warm-toned rugs, acoustic dampening panels masquerading as modern art, and a restored upright piano.
When Dante's second-in-command, a scarred man named Matteo, tried to stop the delivery at the gates, Sera didn't flinch. She walked down the marble driveway, stood toe-to-toe with the heavily armed capo, and said, "Unless you want Nico and Leo screaming for the next four hours, bring the piano inside." Matteo had looked at her as if she were a ghost, then silently ordered his men to carry the instrument to the second floor.
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Life in the Ferraro estate was a masterclass in tension. Sera spent her days observing the intricate dance of guards, the hushed whispers of staff, and the heavy, suffocating silence that fell whenever Dante entered a room. He was a phantom in his own home. He would stand at the edge of the nursery, watching Sera work with the twins, his eyes dark and unreadable. She introduced them to a strict routine of rhythmic therapy, tactile stimulation, and, most importantly, emotional warmth. Within three days, the twins' violent tremors had reduced by half.
But the real challenge wasn't the babies. It was their father. One evening, Sera found Dante in his study, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, staring at a dossier. His knuckles were bruised, split at the seams. The smell of copper and stale gunpowder clung to him. "You shouldn't be in here," he growled, not looking up. "I need you to hold Leo," she replied evenly. "He's having a night terror." Dante froze. "I'll infect him with this," he said, gesturing to his bloody hands. Sera stepped forward, unyielding. "Wash your hands. Then come be a father. He doesn't care about what you did today. He cares that you're there tonight."
