Chapter 6 - THE ORPHANAGE AT THE EDGE OF TOWN
“Where is she?” Vincent’s roar shook the concrete walls of the station. He hauled Julian up by the lapels of his ruined suit, slamming him against the metal lockers.
Julian just coughed, a smug grin plastered on his bruised face. “You can kill me, Vincent. But if I die, the location dies with me. And Mia will grow up thinking she was thrown away like garbage.”
I stood there, trembling, holding the decoy baby. The poor child started crying, startled by the noise. I rocked her instinctively, my mind racing.
Julian was a psychopath, but he was organized. He wouldn’t just hide a child without a paper trail.
“Bring the ledger,” I said loudly.
Vincent’s men brought the black book over. I handed the crying baby to one of the guards, instructing him to keep her safe, and took the book.
“He’s arrogant,” I said, staring at Julian. “He wouldn’t trust anyone else to raise the true heir to the Rossi family. He’d want to keep her close, to use her as leverage later.”
I flipped through the pages. Bank accounts. Offshore trusts. Shell corporations.
“Look for properties bought eleven months ago,” Vincent ordered, catching on.
I scanned the dates. My finger stopped on a transaction.
St. Jude’s Home for Children. Endowment paid in full. November 14th.
The exact day I gave birth.
“An orphanage,” I breathed. “You put her in an orphanage you control.”
Julian’s smug smile faltered for a fraction of a second. It was all the confirmation we needed.
“Let’s go,” Vincent said, dropping Julian like a sack of trash. “Keep him breathing,” he ordered his men. “If my daughter isn’t there, take pieces off him until he tells you where she is.”
We ran.
The drive to the outskirts of the city felt like it took a lifetime. The rain had stopped, leaving a thick, heavy fog rolling over the dark roads.
St. Jude’s was an imposing gothic building behind wrought iron gates. There were no lights on. It looked abandoned.
Vincent didn't bother buzzing the intercom. He drove the armored SUV straight through the heavy iron gates, the metal screaming as it tore off its hinges.
We burst through the front doors. The hallway smelled of old wax and boiled cabbage.
An elderly woman in a nightgown rushed out of a side office, looking terrified. “What is the meaning of this?!”
“Mia,” I demanded, running up to her. “A baby girl, eleven months old. Brought here in November.”
The woman’s eyes darted nervously. “We… we don’t have a baby by that name.”
Vincent stepped out of the shadows. The woman gasped, recognizing him instantly.
“Do not lie to me,” Vincent said, his voice a low, lethal hum.
“There is a girl!” the woman cried, backing away. “But she doesn’t have a name! The man who brought her said she was a Jane Doe. We just call her Number Four. She’s upstairs. Third door on the left.”
I didn't wait. I flew up the wooden stairs, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest.
Third door on the left.
I pushed the heavy door open. It was a sterile, cold room with a single metal crib in the center. A small nightlight cast a pale yellow glow.
I walked slowly to the edge of the crib, terrified of what I would find.
Lying in the center of the mattress, clutching a faded pink blanket, was a little girl. She was awake, staring up at the ceiling quietly. She had Vincent’s dark hair, but as I leaned over, she looked at me.
My green eyes. The exact same shade.
She didn't cry. She just stared at me, her tiny brow furrowed.
I reached my hand down into the crib.
She reached up, her small fingers wrapping around my index finger.
“Hi, sweet girl,” I choked out, tears blinding me. “I’m your mama.”
Vincent stepped into the room behind me. I saw his reflection in the window. He dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands, his broad shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
I picked her up, pressing her warm little body against my chest. She smelled like cheap soap, but underneath it, she smelled like mine.
I turned to Vincent, sinking to the floor beside him. He wrapped his massive arms around both of us, burying his face in Mia’s neck.
For the first time in two years, my family was together.
But as I rocked my daughter, I noticed something pinned to her pink blanket. A heavy, silver rosary.
Vincent stopped crying, his eyes locking onto the cross.
“That’s Julian’s,” Vincent whispered, the blood draining from his face.
May you like
Before we could move, the door to the nursery slammed shut behind us. The heavy lock clicked into place.
And the smell of smoke began to seep under the door.
