Chapter 3 - The Fortress of Dolls
By the third week, the 15,000-square-foot penthouse felt less like a gilded cage and more like a workshop.
Camryn had refused the formal nanny uniforms. Instead, she moved about the massive rooms in soft flannel shirts and leggings, her hair usually held up by a pencil. Leo followed her like a shadow. Where he had once spent his days screaming until his throat bled, he now spent them tucked into the corner of the grand kitchen, watching Camryn bake bread or help Mrs. Bellini organize the linens.
He still didn't speak much. The word "Mama" had been a solitary miracle, a dam breaking for a single second before the stone hardened again. But he communicated in other ways. A tug on her sleeve meant he was hungry. A heavy lean against her knee meant he was overwhelmed.
"He needs a space that isn't so grand," Camryn told Matteo one evening.
It was eleven p.m. Matteo had just returned from a "meeting" in Brooklyn. He looked exhausted, the skin beneath his eyes dark, his white shirt stained with something dark near the cuff that Camryn chose not to look at too closely. He was sitting at the massive mahogany desk in his study, a glass of scotch already half-empty.
"The penthouse is fifteen thousand square feet, Camryn," Matteo said, his voice dry. "He has a playroom larger than most apartments in this city."
"It's too big," she insisted, stepping into the room without invitation. She held a small tray with a bowl of chicken noodle soup—something she had made for Leo’s lunch that she had saved for the father. "It looks like a museum. A three-year-old doesn't want to play in a vault. He wants a fort."
Matteo looked at the soup, then up at her. His eyes wandered over her face—the splash of freckles across her nose, the lack of artifice that every other woman in his circle possessed. "A fort."
"Yes. With blankets. And pillows. And those old cardboard boxes the new sub-zero refrigerator came in."
Matteo let out a short, rough laugh—the first real sound of amusement she had heard from him. "You want the son of the DeLuca family to live in a cardboard box?"
"I want him to feel safe," she said quietly, setting the tray down next to his paperwork. "When the ceiling is thirty feet high, everything feels like it can fall on you. Especially when you've already seen the sky turn to fire."
The amusement died in Matteo’s face. The mention of the car bomb was an unspoken line in the house, but Camryn crossed it with the clumsy grace of someone who only cared about the survivor.
He looked at his papers—manifests for the Manhattan piers, ledgers that listed names of men who owed him everything—then pushed them aside. He took the spoon. "Do what you want with the west playroom. Just don't block the fire exits."
"Thank you, sir."
"Matteo," he corrected her before she reached the door.
She paused, her hand on the brass knob.
"In this house, my name is Matteo. Save the 'sir' for the men who want to buy my favor."
The next afternoon, the west wing looked like a construction site of cloth. Camryn had dragged every spare duvet from the linen closets, using the heavy leather chairs as pillars to create a massive, sweeping tent that filled the center of the room. Inside, she had scattered dozens of plush toys and a battery-operated lantern that cast small stars onto the sheet ceiling.
Leo was ecstatic. He didn't laugh—he still hadn't laughed—but his hazel eyes were bright as he dragged his wooden trains into the dark safety of the blanket fortress.
Matteo found them there at five o'clock. He didn't enter the room with his usual heavy stride. He walked silently, standing at the entrance of the tent, looking down at his son who was currently lying on his stomach, pushing a train across Camryn’s shins while she read from a battered book about a blue truck.
"Is there room for one more?" Matteo asked.
May you like
Leo looked up. He didn't scream. He didn't reach for something to throw. Instead, he reached out his small hand, grabbed the hem of his father’s trousers, and gave a firm tug.
The feared Don of New York city sighed, unbuttoned his designer jacket, took off his shoes, and crawled onto the floor into a tent made of Egyptian cotton and cardboard.
