Chapter 1 - THE BLOOD ON THE TUXEDO|
The Golden Palm wasn’t a place where children begged. It was a dark, high-end sanctuary in downtown Chicago built for slick politicians, crooked judges, and men who paid for silence in non-sequential bills.
The low amber chandeliers reflected off polished silver, and the ambient noise was always kept at a soft, civilized whisper.
Vincent Torino sat at his corner booth, sipping a fifty-year-old scotch. At fifty-three, his reputation walked into a room three minutes before he did. Men didn't cross him; they vanished when he looked at them too long.
Then came the tug.
It was faint at first. Vincent assumed his mind was playing tricks on him—a phantom touch from a past he tried to drown in alcohol. But then the pull tightened. Two tiny, trembling fists clung to his tailored black sleeve.
When Vincent looked down, he didn't see an assassin. He saw a little girl, no older than seven. Her dark hair was matted with sweat, her knees scraped raw, and on his pristine cuff, her fingers had left a streak of fresh, smeary blood.
"They hurt my mama," she choked out.
The phrase cracked through the quiet room like a gun shot.
The violinist’s bow skidded to a dead stop. The head waiter, midway through pouring a bottle of Bordeaux, froze in terror. Two local aldermen sitting nearby stared into their glasses, suddenly praying they were invisible.
"They hurt her..." the child sobbed, her voice splintering. "She won't wake up. There's so much blood."
Vincent’s bodyguards reached inside their jackets, eyes scanning the exits. They expected Vincent to shake the street kid off. He was the city’s most ruthless mob boss; he didn't run a daycare.
Instead, Vincent slowly lowered his glass. His large, calloused hand covered the girl’s tiny, trembling fingers.
May you like
"What's your name, little one?" he asked. His voice was lower, softer than any man at that table had heard in twenty years.
"Sophie," she whispered, tears cutting clean tracks through the dirt on her cheek. "Sophie Martinez."
