Chapter 4 - The Empty Chair
The next morning, the sun broke through the heavy gray clouds over Brooklyn, casting long, cold beams across the city.
I woke up early, feeling a strange, hollow ache in my chest—an emptiness that had nothing to do with the bullet wound. I walked into the study, expecting the familiar scent of crayons and the sight of crooked green horses scattered across the floor.
The room was dead.
Lily’s little red chair sat pushed neatly against the side of the mahogany desk.
No crayons.
No coloring books.
And resting squarely in the middle of the seat was the battered, one-eared stuffed rabbit, Poppy.
My heart slammed against my ribs with the force of a battering ram. I rushed across the room, snatching the rabbit up by its worn fabric. It smelled of lavender and little-girl tears.
“Marco!” I roared, bursting out into the hallway, my voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceilings with enough fury to shatter glass.
Marco came running around the corner, out of breath. “Boss? What is it? Is there an attack?”
“Where is she? Where is Clara and the girl?!” I demanded, grabbing Marco by the lapel of his jacket and slamming him against the wall.
“I—I don't know, Boss! You said twenty-four hours to clear out—!”
“Find them! Check the gates! Search the entire perimeter right now!” I shoved him away, spinning back toward the study doors.
As I turned, my eyes caught a small piece of white paper resting on the floor near the service entrance, weighed down by a polished brass paperweight.
My stomach plummeted into an abyss of cold dread.
I dropped to my knees, snatching the paper off the floor.
The handwriting was uneven, shaky, and painfully large—formed by clumsy little fingers that were still learning how to hold a pencil.
If I leave, will Mommy get to stay?
The words hit me like a physical blow to the chest, driving every ounce of air out of my lungs.
Suddenly, the memory of a quiet conversation from three nights ago flashed in my mind. We had been sitting by the fire. Lily had looked up from her coloring book and asked me that exact question with wide, innocent eyes: “If I leave, will Mommy get to stay?”
At the time, I had been distracted by a shipment manifest from Marseille. I had absentmindedly patted her head and said, “Yes, bug, of course.”
I had thought she was talking about going to the park.
She wasn't.
May you like
She had been listening to the hushed whispers of the estate staff. She had heard the rumors about my wrath. She had connected her uncle’s terrible mistake to her mother’s security in this house. And while the entire Romano estate slept, a three-year-old child had processed the heavy, violent math of my world and decided that she—and only she—was the problem.
She had tried to erase herself from my world so her mother wouldn't lose her home.
