Chapter 1 - The Boy Who Spoke
|
The kitchen went entirely still. The only sound was the hum of the stainless-steel refrigerator and the harsh, ragged breathing of the five-year-old boy standing in the doorway. Victor Rossi, a man who commanded the Chicago underworld with a single look, seemed physically struck by the words his son had just spoken. He stared at Finn, his bloody knuckles hanging uselessly at his sides.
I didn't wait for Victor to recover. I crossed the marble floor, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I knelt in front of Finn, completely ignoring the dangerous man standing inches away.
"Finn," I whispered, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my veins. "You don't mean that. He's your father."
"He's mean," Finn sobbed, wrapping his small, trembling arms around my neck. He buried his face into my shoulder, his tears soaking through the thin fabric of my shirt. "He makes you sad. I don't want him to make you sad."
I closed my eyes, absorbing the profound weight of a child's unconditional loyalty. I stood up, lifting Finn into my arms. He felt impossibly light, yet he was carrying the emotional burden of a broken family. I finally looked at Victor. The cold, impenetrable mask he wore for his capos and enemies had completely shattered. His dark eyes were wide, tracking every movement his son made. He looked like a man who had just realized his empire was built on ashes.
"I'm putting him to bed," I stated. It wasn't a request.
Victor's mouth opened, but no sound came out. The bruise darkening his jaw seemed to pulse under the harsh kitchen lights. He took a half-step forward, his hand raising slightly, as if to touch Finn's back.
Finn shrank away, burying his face deeper into my neck.
Victor froze. The rejection hit him harder than any bullet ever could. He slowly lowered his hand, his expression closing off once again, retreating behind the thick walls of ice he had spent years constructing.
May you like
"Do whatever you want," Victor muttered, his voice hoarse. He turned his back to us, picking up his glass of whiskey and downing it in one brutal swallow.
I didn't offer him another word. I turned and carried Finn up the sweeping staircase, the silence of the massive estate pressing down on us like a physical weight. I knew, with absolute certainty, that tomorrow morning, I would pack my bags. But tonight, I had a little boy to protect.
