Chapter 2 - THE FIRST TIME I GOT MY HANDS DIRTY
“Ready?”
I looked at my three boys—their muddy shoes, flushed cheeks, and bright eyes.
For the first time since their mother died, they looked like children again.
I tightened my grip.
“Ready.”
Emma blinked as though she was waiting for me to change my mind.
I didn’t.
Leo grabbed the rope with both hands.
Lucas wrapped his tiny fingers around it beside him.
Liam, who rarely participated in anything without being coaxed, silently took the last open section.
Emma stepped back.
“Okay, boys. On three.”
She looked at me.
“One.”
I braced.
“Two.”
Lucas screamed, “THREE!”
All three pulled.
I could have held them with two fingers.
Instead, I let my shoes slide through the wet grass.
The boys howled.
“Daddy losing!” Leo shouted.
“I am not losing.”
“You losing!”
Emma laughed.
“You heard the man. He says he’s not losing.”
Then she leaned toward the boys and whispered loudly:
“Pull harder.”
Traitor.
I let them drag me two feet.
Then three.
By the time I deliberately fell onto one knee, Lucas was laughing so hard he couldn’t stand.
Liam looked at me.
Really looked at me.
Then he smiled.
Not the small, uncertain expression I had seen twice since Isabella died.
A full smile.
His mother’s smile.
Something inside my chest cracked.
I looked away before anyone noticed.
Emma noticed anyway.
She seemed to notice everything.
That evening, after baths and dinner, the boys fell asleep in less than ten minutes.
No screaming.
No fighting.
No Liam standing silently at the nursery window.
Just sleep.
I stood in the hallway outside their room.
Emma emerged carrying three empty cups.
“You should change.”
I looked down.
Mud covered my trousers.
One sleeve of my white shirt had a grass stain.
“I own washing machines.”
“That doesn’t mean you know how to use them.”
I looked at her.
She smiled.
Careful, but not afraid.
That was unusual.
Most employees around me feared displeasing me.
Emma seemed more concerned about whether I was being stupid.
“How long have you been working here?”
“Four months.”
“And they laugh like that every day?”
Her expression softened.
“Not every day.”
“How often?”
“More lately.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
She hesitated.
“That’s not really something you can put in a daily report.”
I almost argued.
Then realized how ridiculous I sounded.
Every evening, someone sent me a summary.
Meals eaten.
Nap duration.
Temperatures.
Behavior.
Medication.
I knew how many ounces of milk Liam drank last Tuesday.
I did not know he laughed when Emma pretended to be defeated by a rope.
“What else don’t I know?”
Emma looked toward the nursery.
“A lot.”
The answer irritated me because it was probably true.
“My name is Matteo Moretti.”
She looked confused.
“I know.”
“No. I mean everyone in this house knows what my name means.”
She folded her arms.
“You’re trying to intimidate me while covered in mud.”
Fair.
I almost smiled.
“People give me accurate information.”
“People give you information they think you want.”
That stopped me.
“What do you think I want?”
“Control.”
The word landed too cleanly.
“I want my sons safe.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s wrong with control?”
Emma leaned against the wall.
“Children aren’t companies.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
I stared at her.
She continued before courage could leave her.
“They’ve lost their mother. Then they lost their routines. Then six nannies came and went.”
“Five.”
“Six.”
“No.”
“Mrs. Holloway lasted three days.”
I had forgotten Mrs. Holloway.
Point Emma.
“They don’t need another person managing them perfectly,” she said. “They need people who stay.”
My jaw tightened.
“I stay.”
Emma didn’t answer.
That was worse.
“I live here.”
“You sleep here.”
The words cut.
She saw it.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
I looked toward the nursery.
“Don’t apologize because something is true.”
My phone vibrated.
Twelve missed calls.
Boston deal.
Construction dispute.
Two politicians.
My lawyer.
I turned it off.
Emma noticed that too.
The next morning, I ate breakfast with my sons.
It should not have felt revolutionary.
It did.
Leo stole strawberries from Lucas.
Lucas threw cereal.
Liam fed half his toast to the dog.
I spent twenty minutes discovering why my dining room staff usually looked exhausted.
Emma arrived at eight.
She stopped when she saw me.
“You’re here.”
“I own the house.”
“You’re usually gone.”
Again.
Truth.
I looked at the boys.
“Today I’m not.”
Leo lifted his spoon.
“Rope!”
“At breakfast?”
“Rope!”
Emma sat beside Liam.
“We can play later.”
He nodded.
Then she placed a hand lightly against Liam’s back while he ate.
He leaned into her without thinking.
I felt something strange.
Not jealousy.
Something more complicated.
Relief.
My children trusted someone.
Then my head of security appeared.
“Mr. Moretti.”
His tone made Emma glance up.
“What?”
“There’s a woman at the gate.”
“Who?”
He handed me a tablet.
Security camera.
A black Bentley waited outside.
Beside it stood a woman wearing a cream coat.
Victoria Bellini.
Isabella’s older sister.
My sons’ aunt.
We had not spoken in eight months.
Not since Isabella’s funeral.
“What does she want?”
“She says she has a legal appointment with you.”
My blood went cold.
“Legal?”
He nodded.
“She brought an attorney.”
Emma immediately stood.
“I’ll take the boys upstairs.”
Victoria had blamed me for Isabella’s death.
Not directly.
She never needed to.
Isabella died in a car accident returning from a charity gala I had promised to attend with her.
I canceled for a business emergency.
She went alone.
The crash happened twenty minutes later.
Victoria never forgave me.
Some days, neither had I.
“Emma.”
She stopped.
“Stay nearby.”
Her expression changed.
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Victoria entered ten minutes later.
She did not hug me.
Did not ask how I was.
Her attorney opened a leather folder.
Victoria looked toward the staircase where the boys had disappeared.
“I’ve come because I’m done watching Isabella’s children disappear inside this house.”
My jaw tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve filed for temporary guardianship.”
The room went completely still.
“You did what?”
Her attorney slid documents across the table.
Victoria’s voice remained calm.
“Your sons have had six nannies in eleven months. Their pediatric records show behavioral regression. Liam stopped speaking for nearly four months. You travel constantly.”
“They are grieving.”
“So are you.”
“That doesn’t make me unfit.”
“No.”
Her eyes hardened.
“But your life might.”
I knew what she meant.
The Moretti name.
The rumors.
The men outside.
The businesses newspapers called legitimate only when lawyers were present.
“You think you can take my sons?”
“I think Isabella would want them protected.”
I stood.
“Do not tell me what my wife would want.”
Victoria’s eyes filled.
“I knew her longer than you did.”
That hurt because it was true.
Then her attorney opened another page.
“We have a hearing in ten days.”
“On what evidence?”
He hesitated.
Victoria answered.
“Reports from inside this house.”
My attention sharpened.
“What reports?”
“Neglect. Emotional instability. Dangerous behavior.”
Dangerous behavior.
My mind went immediately to the lawn.
Emma in the mud.
Rope around her hands.
Someone could photograph that from the wrong angle and make it look terrible.
My security chief entered.
His face had changed.
“Sir.”
“What?”
He handed me his phone.
A photograph had been emailed anonymously to Victoria’s attorney that morning.
Emma sitting in the mud.
My sons pulling the rope.
No laughter visible.
No context.
Only three toddlers apparently dragging their nanny across a lawn.
Beneath the picture was a caption.
MORETTI CHILDREN LEFT UNSUPERVISED WITH UNQUALIFIED CAREGIVER.
Victoria stared at Emma, who had quietly appeared at the top of the staircase.
Then she said:
“That woman is exactly why I’m taking Isabella’s children out of this house.”
Emma went pale.
May you like
And suddenly the laughter from yesterday had become evidence in a custody war.
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