Chapter 3 - The Broken Crayon
The little girl didn't scream. That was the most unsettling part. Children in distress usually cry, shriek, or call for help. This child simply locked her jaw, clutching the bloodstained Rolex to her ribcage, her eyes daring me to take another step.
I remained on the other side of the threshold, sinking down onto my knees so my eye line sat lower than hers. In my years running behavioral interventions in the Bronx, rule number one was simple: never loom over a traumatized animal.
“Hello,” I said, keeping my voice pitched low and warm, as steady as a metronome.
She didn't blink. Her knuckles turned white over the fractured gold links.
“My name is Lucia,” I added. “I like your sweater. Blue is a very calm color.”
Her gaze flickered down to the snapped green crayon near her knee. Slowly, deliberately, her small shoe kicked it toward the doorway. It was a test. If I rushed to pick it up, I was an intruder. If I ignored it, I was indifferent.
I didn't touch the crayon. Instead, I sat cross-legged right on the hardwood floor outside her room, leaning my back against the doorframe, deliberately leaving the doorway entirely clear.
“When I'm having a hard day,” I murmured into the quiet hallway, “I like green things. Grass. Pine needles. Green usually means things are growing, even when it feels like everything is broken.”
From down the corridor, heavy footsteps approached. Nico appeared, having discarded his suit jacket. His silk tie was loosened at his throat, and the sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled up to his forearms, revealing a faded geometric tattoo trailing down toward his wrist.
He stopped three paces away, frowning down at me sitting on the floor.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before a sound left his lips, I shot him a sharp, venomous glare and raised one finger to my lips. Be quiet.
The most feared man in New York froze. His jaw tightened in shock at being shushed in his own home, but astonishingly, he kept his mouth shut.
I turned back to the room. The little girl was watching Nico. The posture she adopted wasn't hatred; it was sheer, bone-deep panic. She shuffled backward until her spine hit the side of her four-poster bed.
“Nico,” I said without looking at him, “take two steps back.”
“Lucia—” he began in a low growl.
“Back,” I insisted, keeping my voice gentle for the child while leaving no room for argument. “You're blocking the light.”
After a tense three seconds, the floorboards creaked as Nico took two slow paces back into the hallway shadow.
Inside the room, the girl's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. She didn't let go of the watch, but she set her other hand on the carpet.
“Her name is Mia,” Nico said quietly from behind me.
“I know,” I replied softly. “There are monogrammed storybooks on the shelf.”
“She hasn't spoken a syllable in four months,” Nico continued, his voice strained with an exhaustion he clearly hid from the rest of the world. “She doesn't cry. She doesn't scream. She destroys her food and breaks everything she touches. I've brought three child psychiatrists here. She bit the last one until the woman bled.”
“Because they were trying to fix her,” I whispered, watching Mia trace the shattered glass of the watch face. “You can't fix someone when their house has burned down around them. You just sit in the ashes with them until they're ready to stand up.”
Mia’s gaze drifted from the watch to my face. For the first time, her eyes held something other than fear: raw curiosity.
“Who does the watch belong to, Nico?” I asked softly.
A dark shadow passed over Nico’s features. “My younger brother, Matteo. Mia’s father.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead,” Nico said flatly. “Four months ago. A car fire on the West Side Highway.”
Mia flinched violently at the word fire. She pulled her knees up to her chest, hiding her face entirely behind her dark hair, rocking slowly back and forth.
Answer one, open two. Matteo was dead, but the dried stains on that Rolex weren't from a fire. That was blunt-force impact blood. And the car accident narrative didn't explain why this six-year-old child was guarding the heirloom like a shield against the world.
I didn't push. Instead, I reached into the pocket of my slacks and pulled out a plain silver hair tie. I placed it gently on the floor, midway between the doorframe and the broken green crayon.
“I'll be right downstairs, Mia,” I said softly. “If you want to snap more crayons later, I have some purple ones.”
I stood up slowly, smoothing my trousers. I walked past Nico without looking at him, heading down the sweeping staircase toward the ground floor. Nico fell into step beside me, his long strides easily matching mine.
“You have a strange way of handling children,” he noted as we reached the ground-floor library.
“I have a way of handling human beings who have been terrorized,” I countered, spinning around to face him. The library was lined with leather-bound volumes, oil paintings, and security monitors mounted discreetly inside an antique hutch. “Now explain to me why you really bought my marriage, Nico. Because it wasn't just Daniel’s debt.”
Nico walked over to a marble bar, pouring two fingers of amber bourbon into a heavy crystal tumbler. He didn't offer me one.
“The Romano family has council seats across this state,” Nico began, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid. “Matteo wasn't just my brother. He was the legitimate face of our logistics empire. When he died, his will left everything—including fifty-one percent of the controlling shares of Romano Maritime—to Mia.”
I crossed my arms. “And you're her legal guardian.”
“I was supposed to be,” Nico said, turning around. His expression was grim. “Matteo’s will had a strict moral and stability clause added six months before his death. The guardian must be married, running a stable, intact household, and certified by family court services. If I cannot present a suitable maternal environment by next Friday, the state takes custody of Mia.”
The puzzle pieces snapped together with terrifying clarity. “And if the state takes custody of Mia, Matteo’s shares go into a blind court-appointed conservatorship.”
“Which my uncle, Salvatore Romano, will immediately buy out through dummy corporations,” Nico stated, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “Salvatore wants this empire. He wants the docks, the trucking routes, the warehouses. If Salvatore gets Mia, he gets the shares. And once he has the shares...”
“He won't need Mia anymore,” I finished, a chill settling in my chest.
“She will suffer an 'unfortunate accident' within six months of entering his care,” Nico said, setting his glass down on the desk with a sharp clack. “I needed a wife with zero legal baggage, impeccable moral character, and professional background with children. Daniel’s debt gave me the leverage to acquire you.”
“You didn't acquire me,” I snapped, stepping into his personal space. “You trapped me.”
Before Nico could respond, a frantic shout echoed from the entrance hall.
The heavy mahogany doors flew open. A tall, silver-haired man in an immaculate pinstripe suit strode into the foyer, followed by two burly men in overcoats. His resemblance to Nico was unmistakable, but his smile was entirely devoid of warmth.
“Nico!” the man boomed, his voice carrying the oily arrogance of someone who believed he owned the world. “I hear congratulations are in order! You ran off to an obscure Queens parish and found yourself a blushing bride!”
Salvatore Romano walked straight into the library, his cold eyes sweeping over me like a hawk sizing up prey.
“Uncle Salvatore,” Nico greeted him, his posture instantly rigid, hands resting loosely by his sides—the posture of a predator ready to strike.
Salvatore stopped two feet from me, his eyes lingering on my simple sweater and slacks. “A kindergarten teacher from Brooklyn. How touching. A sudden love match, Nico? Or did you just pick up a stray off the street to satisfy the probate judge?”
May you like
Salvatore reached into his breast pocket and produced a gold money clip holding a folded document.
“Because if she’s truly your wife,” Salvatore purred, tapping the document against his palm, “she might be interested to know that the car crash that killed Matteo wasn't an accident. And the police report filed this morning names Daniel Ward as the freight dispatcher who scheduled Matteo’s truck that night.”
