Chapter 4 - The Night of the Wolves
The storm hit Glastonbury at seven o'clock the following evening.
Heavy rain slammed against the high stained-glass windows of the Moretti manor, accompanied by violent gusts of wind that shook the ancient maple trees surrounding the estate. Lightning flashed across the sky, casting long, grotesque shadows through the vaulted corridors.
Inside the estate, the atmosphere was dark, suffocating, and tense.
Dante had spent the entire day locked in his private chapel in the east wing, refusing to see anyone—including his sons. The triplets had spent the afternoon in a state of quiet, brooding hostility, refusing to eat their lunch and retreating into the dark corners of the playrooms like wounded animals.
At 8:30 PM, after finally getting a terrified Rosie to sleep through the rolling thunder, Claire walked into the boys' room.
The room was completely dark except for the intermittent flashes of lightning outside.
All three boys were sitting on the floor in the center of the room, gathered around a small silver framed photograph of a beautiful, dark-haired woman with a soft, radiant smile—their mother, Elena.
Nico was crying quietly, his face buried in his knees. Luca was staring blankly at the wall. Leo was holding the frame tightly in his small hands, his knuckles white.
Claire did not speak. She walked softly into the room, sat down on the floor beside them, and pulled her knees up to her chest.
"She was very beautiful," Claire said softly, her voice blending with the sound of rain against the glass.
Leo didn't look up. "Dad locked himself away again," he whispered, his voice trembling with a child's raw heartbreak. "He always does this today. He pretends we don't exist."
"He doesn't pretend you don't exist, Leo," Claire said gently. "He's just broken. When you lose someone you love that much, the pain feels like a giant rock sitting on your chest. Sometimes, adults hide because they don't want their kids to see them hurting."
"Did your mom die?" Luca asked, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
"My mom left when I was little," Claire said quietly. "And my grandmother, who raised me, passed away three years ago. I know what it feels like to sit in a dark room and wish you could hear their voice just one more time."
Nico slowly crawled over from his side of the room, leaning his head against Claire’s shoulder. Claire hesitated for a second, then wrapped her arm around his small, shaking frame, pulling him close.
"It doesn't go away," Claire whispered, her hand gently stroking Nico’s hair. "But it gets easier to carry. I promise you that."
Suddenly, the door to the bedroom was pushed open hard.
Salvatore Moretti stood in the hallway, smelling heavily of bourbon, a half-empty glass in his hand. His face was flushed, his tie loosened, his eyes slick with dark intoxication.
"What are you doing in here?" Salvatore rasped, stepping into the doorway. "Why aren't these kids asleep?"
Claire kept her arms around Nico and Leo, her eyes hardening into steel as she looked up at the drunk man. "They are having a difficult night, Salvatore. Leave us."
"Don't tell me what to do in my brother's house, girl!" Salvatore shouted, taking a heavy step into the room. "Dante is useless tonight! Drunk on grief in the chapel like a coward! Someone has to keep order around here!"
He reached out, grabbing Leo roughly by his arm, pulling him up from the floor. "Get into bed! All of you! You're Morettis! Stop crying like pathetic little—"
"LET HIM GO!" Claire roared.
Before Salvatore could react, Claire stood up with lightning speed. She slammed her hand hard against Salvatore's chest, shoving the heavy, intoxicated man backward through the doorway into the hallway.
Salvatore stumbled, his bourbon glass shattering against the wooden floorboards. His eyes went wide with shock and pure rage as he regained his balance.
"You touch those boys again," Claire spat, her body trembling with righteous fury, her voice ringing down the empty corridor, "and I will tear you apart with my bare hands! I don't care who you are! I don't care what guns your men carry! Get away from them!"
Salvatore let out a guttural growl of pure malice. He reached into his leather jacket, pulling out a heavy blue-steel revolver, aiming it directly at Claire’s heart.
"You little bitch," Salvatore whispered, his finger tightening around the trigger. "You think you can talk to me—"
CLICK-CLACK.
The sound of a round being chambered echoed through the hallway with terrifying, absolute clarity.
Salvatore froze.
Dante Moretti stood five feet behind his uncle, holding a matte-black custom pistol pressed directly against the base of Salvatore’s skull.
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Dante was completely silent. His dark hair was wet from the rain outside, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck, his eyes so cold, dark, and utterly devoid of human mercy that he looked like an executioner standing at the gates of hell.
"Lower the weapon, Salvatore," Dante whispered. His voice was barely a breath, but it contained enough darkness to stop a beating heart. "Before I paint this hallway with your thoughts."
