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Marcelo.
He'd traded his usual look for a textured charcoal cashmere crewneck, topped with a low-key black soft leather jacket. His silver-streaked temples caught the morning light, stripping away the Don's cold brutality, revealing something softer—the settled warmth of a mature man.
His left hand stayed pocketed, right hand cradling a handcrafted walnut wood carving. A tastefully wrapped kraft paper bag sat beside the bench.
"What a coincidence, Ruby."
Seeing us approach, he straightened, hands dropping awkwardly to his sides. Those deep gray-green eyes flickered with unmistakable tension. He even stepped back half a pace, strictly observing the "safe distance" we'd established at the bakery.
"Coincidence?" I stopped, eyebrow arched. "Mr. Moretti, since Wednesday, we've 'run into' each other every morning at eight-thirty at that organic bakery around the corner from our hotel. Wednesday afternoon at three, you 'happened by' the children's bookshop on Fifth Avenue. And today, Thursday, you're 'just taking a walk' by the pigeon fountain, two blocks from our hotel? Since when does the CEO of IS·MA Group have time to kick through leaves every damn day?"
Facing my mockery, Marcelo didn't argue. Instead, he coughed awkwardly, Adam's apple bobbing. "Rocco said... the morning light here is best. Good for kids to breathe fresh air."
"Wow! Wooden horsey!"
Leon's gray-green eyes locked onto what Marcelo held. The kid couldn't sense the tension crackling between us. He dropped my hand and ran forward, round face tilted up. "Tall Marcelo!"
The name I'd taught Leon at the bakery a few days ago—right in front of him.
Marcelo's large frame trembled imperceptibly, but his eyes flooded with undeniable tenderness. He dropped naturally to one knee on the damp grass, expensive cashmere pants soaking up mud without a second thought, meeting Leon at eye level.
"This horse has three spinning gears hidden in its belly. You like it, Leon?"
"I love it! It has a golden saddle!" Leon reached out, fingers stroking the smooth, finely-grained wood.
Marcelo pulled a heavy leather case from the bag, offering it carefully to the child. "And this—a complete set of non-toxic mineral watercolors, with thirty-six English handmade wax crayons. Isa told me you love coloring dinosaurs."
Leon bounced in place, but didn't grab it immediately. Instead, he turned, eyes hopeful on me. "Mamma, can I keep them?"
Looking at my son's pure, expectant gaze, then at this man kneeling in the mud with pitiful eyes, my chest tightened with complicated ache.
"Thank Marcelo, and you can keep them." I looked away, voice flat.
"Thank you, Marcelo!" Leon chirped, hugging the heavy paint box.
For the next half hour, I sat on the bench's edge watching this man—once a feared mob Don—sit cross-legged on the grass, holding a thick Sicilian fairy tale book, patiently telling our child about seaside castles and dragons.
Leon sprawled across his lap, dark brown curls brushing Marcelo's palm. Marcelo's large hand hovered protectively over the child's back, touch feather-light, as if handling glass. His eyes overflowed with impossible tenderness.
Once, I'd thought him nothing but a domineering beast. But this scene was a needle, ruthlessly picking at memories I'd locked away.
When he closed the book, Leon had chased off after falling leaves toward the pigeon flock.
Marcelo stood, brushing leaves from his knees, stopping two steps from the bench. Autumn wind ruffled his hair as he looked at me, deep-set eyes holding cautious hope.
"Ruby."
"Just say it, Mr. Moretti." I crossed my arms, voice guarded.
Marcelo drew a deep breath, hands clenching at his sides. "This weekend... the competition semi-final closed pattern-making session starts. You'll need at least three days of intensive work. I know you hired a new housekeeper, but the hotel environment is chaotic. Manhattan paparazzi and media are noticing you."
He paused, throat working hard, as if summoning all his courage for the next words. "I have a private estate on Long Island's North Shore, overlooking the ocean. Three acres of enclosed greenhouse gardens, with swings and a small deer park. Rocco personally handles all security—no outside interference... Would you spend this weekend there?"
My head snapped up, eyes cold as iron. "Marcelo, are you testing me? I told you—don't use our child to worm into our lives. Don't think you can lure me to your territory and trap me!"
"I swear that's not it!"
Marcelo stepped forward urgently, then froze under my icy stare, eyes full of panic and regret. "I won't restrict your freedom at all! The main house is yours. I'll stay in the back guesthouse. Ruby, I just want you both to feel real earth under real sunlight, instead of being stuck in a cramped hotel suite... If you're uncomfortable for even a second, I'll have a car ready immediately."
