Chapter 3 - THE TORN DRAWING
I stood frozen in the master suite, staring at the word scribbled in blue ink. Twin.
My mind raced. Margaret said there was a five-year-old boy. The certificate said the child was seven. And Vanessa had written a note about a twin. Nothing was adding up, but one thing was horrifyingly clear: Vanessa’s lies were not just about money or status. They were about children she had abandoned.
I clutched the broken silver cross and the birth certificate, rushing back down the grand staircase.
When I reached the foyer, the scene had shifted. Luca was standing by the fireplace, his posture rigid, while Vanessa was frantically throwing designer coats into a leather duffel bag. Margaret sat quietly in the corner, looking exhausted.
I walked straight to Luca and handed him the cross and the folded paper.
He glanced at the silver piece, then opened the document. I watched his dark eyes scan the page. The muscle in his jaw flexed.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw anything. With deadly calm, he walked over to Vanessa, grabbed the zipper of the duffel bag she was filling, and pulled it shut with a sharp zip.
She jumped, looking at him with wide, mascara-stained eyes.
Luca held up the birth certificate. “Who is the twin, Vanessa?”
Vanessa’s face crumpled. She looked at the paper, then at her mother, who was staring at us in utter confusion.
“What twin?” Margaret asked, her voice shaking. “Thomas only had Leo. He brought Leo home from the hospital alone.”
Vanessa backed away until her shoulders hit the wall. “It’s none of your business,” she spat at Luca, though her voice wavered. “The wedding is off, right? Just let me leave.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a dangerous baritone. “You left a sick man. You abandoned a child. And now you’re hiding another one. Marco!”
The security chief stepped forward instantly.
“Put her in the guest house. Lock the door. She doesn’t leave until I have the truth.”
Vanessa screamed and fought as Marco grabbed her by the arm, dragging her down the hallway toward the rear exit. “You can’t do this, Luca! You don’t know the whole story!”
When the heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind them, the house fell deathly silent.
Luca turned to Margaret. His voice softened instantly. “Mrs. Bellini, where is Leo now?”
Margaret wiped her eyes. “He’s in the state system. When Thomas passed away, I tried to take him. But I live in a senior trailer park that doesn’t allow children, and my income wasn’t enough for the state to grant me custody. They placed him in a foster home on the South Side.”
My heart broke. I thought of my own younger sister, how hard my dad worked to keep a roof over our heads. No child deserved to be handed over to strangers.
Luca looked at me. “Emma. Do you know the South Side?”
“Yes, sir,” I said quickly. “I grew up there.”
“Good.” He pulled his keys from his pocket. “We are going to get that boy. Tonight.”
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the back of Luca’s armored black SUV. Margaret sat beside me, clutching her brown handbag, while Luca drove. The neon lights of downtown Chicago blurred past the tinted windows, giving way to the darker, quieter streets of the South Side.
Margaret had given us the address of the foster home. It was a dilapidated brick two-flat on a block lined with dying trees.
Luca parked the SUV at the curb. He turned the engine off and looked at me in the rearview mirror.
“Emma. You come with me. Women are less intimidating to children than men in suits. Mrs. Bellini, stay here where it’s safe.”
I nodded, stepping out into the brisk Chicago wind. We walked up the cracked concrete path and knocked on the peeling front door.
A woman in a stained bathrobe answered. She smelled heavily of cheap cigarettes and stale beer. She looked Luca up and down, taking in his expensive suit and the cold authority radiating from him.
“We’re here for Leo Cole,” Luca said simply.
The woman scoffed. “Visiting hours are over. Social workers only come on Tuesdays.”
Luca didn’t argue. He reached into his coat, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and held it out. “I am not a social worker. I am taking the boy for a family visit. Now.”
The woman stared at the money, licked her lips, and snatched it. She stepped aside.
The house was dark and smelled of mildew. We walked down a narrow hallway to a back bedroom. The door was ajar.
Inside, sitting on a bare mattress with no sheets, was a little boy. He had unruly dark hair and big, soulful brown eyes. He was wearing clothes that were two sizes too big for him.
My chest tightened. I knelt down slowly so I wouldn’t frighten him.
“Hi, Leo,” I whispered. “My name is Emma. We’re friends of your grandma Margaret. She’s outside in the car.”
The boy didn’t speak. He just stared at me. Then, his small, dirty hands tightened around something he was holding against his chest.
“What do you have there, buddy?” I asked gently.
He hesitated, then slowly lowered his hands.
It was a child’s drawing on a crumpled piece of construction paper. It showed two stick figures holding hands. One had a blue shirt. The other had a red shirt.
Beneath the figures, written in clumsy, childish handwriting, were two names.
Leo and Lucas.
I looked up at Luca. His face had gone pale.
He stepped into the room, staring at the drawing in the boy's hand.
“Leo,” Luca asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Who is Lucas?”
The boy finally spoke, his voice tiny and raw.
“He’s my brother. But the bad lady took him away today.”
I froze. Today?
May you like
Before I could ask anything else, the front door of the house slammed shut with a violent bang. Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.
A man’s voice called out, gruff and angry. “Hey! Who’s the guy in the suit? I told you they were paying us to keep him hidden!”
