Chapter 5 - THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE YELLOW CARDIGAN
Alexander Romano had spent fourteen years building a security organization that could protect almost anything.
Yet someone had found his eighteen-month-old daughter in less than two hours.
“Get Margaret on the phone,” he ordered.
Nicholas was already calling.
No answer.
Alexander reached for his coat.
Ortiz stepped into his path.
“Alexander, if you rush over there with armed men, you'll put your daughter in more danger.”
“My daughter is already in danger.”
“Then think like her father, not like a Mafia boss.”
The words stopped him.
For years, Alexander had answered every threat with intimidation.
He had never needed another method.
But Rosie wasn't a shipping contract.
She wasn't territory.
She was a little girl who loved cupcakes and carried a red balloon.
And somewhere in New York, her mother was fighting to get back to her.
Alexander lowered his hand.
“What do you suggest?”
“Let Nicholas contact the building manager. I'll send an independent protection team.”
Five minutes later, they learned something unexpected.
Margaret had recognized the suspicious man before he reached the apartment.
She had quietly taken Rosie through a connecting hallway into an elderly neighbor's apartment.
The neighbor, Mrs. Quinn, had once been a pediatric nurse.
Rosie was perfectly safe.
She was currently sitting at Mrs. Quinn's kitchen table, demanding another strawberry.
Alexander closed his eyes.
Relief nearly brought him to his knees.
“Put Margaret on.”
A moment later, her familiar voice answered.
“Mr. Romano?”
“Is Rosie all right?”
“She is. She's eating.”
Alexander laughed once, shakily.
“Of course she is.”
Then Margaret grew serious.
“Alexander, the man outside was carrying a photograph. I saw his face through the peephole.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
Alexander waited.
“He worked for your uncle.”
The room went silent.
Margaret explained that the man had visited the Carter estate several times over the previous six months.
He usually arrived after dark.
And he always carried documents for Salvatore Romano.
Alexander looked toward Nicholas.
“Find him.”
But the man had already disappeared.
Ortiz immediately arranged to move Margaret and Rosie to a protected federal residence.
Alexander insisted on seeing his daughter first.
When he arrived, Rosie was sitting on the living-room carpet with a stuffed rabbit.
Her sparkling yellow cardigan had slipped off one shoulder.
The moment she saw him, she raised both arms.
“Dada! Up!”
Alexander stopped walking.
He had heard people call him boss.
Sir.
Mr. Romano.
Names spoken with fear.
But this tiny girl had just called him something he had never imagined hearing.
He knelt.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
Rosie stumbled into his arms.
She smelled like strawberries and baby shampoo.
For a moment, Alexander held her so tightly that Margaret gently touched his shoulder.
“She needs to breathe, Mr. Romano.”
Alexander loosened his embrace.
Rosie giggled and grabbed his tie.
“Mine.”
He smiled through the tears gathering in his eyes.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I think I am.”
Margaret watched him quietly.
“Emily always said you had kindness in you.”
Alexander looked up.
“She said that?”
“She also said you buried it so deeply that sometimes she couldn't find it.”
The truth hurt.
Because he remembered the night Emily left him.
They had argued about his business.
She had asked whether he ever intended to live without fear and violence.
He had told her she didn't understand his world.
Then she walked away.
And he had never gone after her.
Now he understood what that decision had cost.
“I'm bringing her home,” he told Margaret.
“I know you'll try.”
“No. I promise.”
Margaret shook her head.
“Don't promise Rosie something you can't control. Promise you'll do everything you can.”
Alexander nodded slowly.
It was the first honest promise he had made in years.
After Rosie was safely transferred into federal protection, Alexander returned to the investigation.
Ortiz had recovered Emily's torn coat from the gallery.
Inside the lining, investigators discovered a folded paper receipt.
Emily had hidden it beneath a row of hand-sewn stitches.
It was dated three days earlier.
The receipt came from a private fuel supplier serving Berth Seventeen.
But the account holder wasn't Vincent Ferraro.
It was a company controlled by Salvatore Romano.
Nicholas stared at the document.
“Your uncle has been paying for Ferraro's operations.”
Alexander said nothing.
At 11:40 that night, surveillance officers confirmed movement at the waterfront.
A black sedan entered Berth Seventeen.
Ferraro stepped out first.
Then Emily.
She was wearing a plain gray sweater.
Her hands were free, but two men surrounded her.
Alexander watched through a long-range camera from an observation vehicle with Ortiz.
Emily looked toward the water.
Then someone emerged from a nearby warehouse.
A familiar elderly man in a charcoal overcoat.
Salvatore Romano.
Alexander leaned forward.
His uncle approached Emily.
He placed one hand on her shoulder.
She immediately tried to step away.
Salvatore tightened his grip.
Then he guided her toward a waiting vessel.
Alexander reached for the vehicle door.
Nicholas caught his arm.
“Alexander, don't.”
But Alexander barely heard him.
Because Emily had turned toward the waterfront lights.
May you like
And even from a distance, he could see her mouth forming a single word.
“Help.”
