Chapter 3 - THE WOODEN TRAIN
The photograph of my son trembled in my hands. The glossy paper felt heavy, slick with the rain and the terrifying reality of what it meant.
Leo. My sweet, innocent boy who loved dinosaurs and refused to sleep without the hallway light on. He was in the crosshairs of a mafia execution.
I didn't argue anymore. I threw myself into the back of the armored SUV. Damian slid in beside me, slamming the heavy door shut.
“Drive,” Damian barked to the scarred driver. “To the babysitter’s. Now.”
The heavy vehicle surged forward, tires screaming against the wet pavement. We tore through the neon-lit streets of the city, the rain pounding against the bulletproof glass.
I clutched the photograph to my chest, my breathing shallow and fast. “Why?” I demanded, turning to Damian. “Why is my son a target? My husband was an accountant! We have nothing to do with your family!”
Damian stared at me, his jaw tight. He pulled a pristine linen handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping the blood from his knuckles.
“David wasn't just an accountant, Elena,” Damian said quietly. “He was Richard’s shadow ledger. My brother has been embezzling millions from the syndicate to fund a private army. David was the one hiding the money.”
“You’re lying,” I snapped, tears burning my eyes. “David was a good man. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment. We struggled to buy groceries. If he was hiding millions, where is it?”
“That is exactly what Richard is trying to find out,” Damian replied. “Three years ago, David realized Richard was going to kill him to tie up loose ends. So, David hid the ledger. Then he died in a 'car crash' before Richard could torture the location out of him.”
My stomach bottomed out. The crash. The police had said it was a drunk driver who hit David’s sedan. They never found the other car.
“Richard didn't know you existed until recently,” Damian continued, his dark eyes searching my face. “David kept you entirely off the books. But Richard found out about Leo last week. He hired Chloe to track you, to use the boy as leverage to force you to give up the ledger.”
“I don't have a ledger!” I screamed, the panic finally boiling over. “I don't have anything!”
“I know,” Damian said softly. “If you had it, you wouldn't be working double shifts pouring wine for rich monsters. That's why I came to the restaurant tonight. To warn you. To get you out before Richard’s men moved in.”
A reversal of everything I believed. The mafia boss I thought I was saving was actually there to save me.
The SUV violently swerved around a corner, throwing me against Damian’s solid chest. He instinctively put an arm around me to steady me, his grip protective.
“We’re two blocks away, boss,” the driver called out. “But we got a problem.”
I looked out the windshield. The quiet suburban street where Mrs. Higgins lived was completely dark. But parked directly in front of her modest ranch home was a black van with tinted windows.
The front door of Mrs. Higgins's house was wide open, swinging in the wind.
“No,” I choked out, grabbing the door handle.
“Wait!” Damian ordered, pulling me back. He drew a sleek, black handgun from a shoulder holster under his ruined jacket. He looked at the driver. “Marcus. Secure the perimeter. Shoot anyone who isn't a grandmother or a five-year-old.”
Damian kicked the door open before the SUV even fully stopped. He moved with a terrifying grace, his weapon raised, blending into the shadows of the rain.
I couldn't stay in the car. I bolted out into the rain behind him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Leo!” I screamed, running across the soaked lawn.
Damian grabbed my waist, pulling me behind the cover of a massive oak tree. “Quiet,” he hissed.
We crept up to the open front door. Inside, the house was a disaster. Lamps were shattered. The sofa cushions were ripped open. Drawers were pulled out and dumped on the carpet. They had torn the place apart looking for something.
Or looking for someone.
“Mrs. Higgins?” I called out, my voice cracking.
A low groan came from the kitchen. Damian moved first, sweeping the room with his gun.
Mrs. Higgins was bound to a dining chair with zip-ties, a piece of duct tape over her mouth. She had a bruise on her cheek, but she was alive.
I rushed to her, ripping the tape off her mouth while Damian cut the ties with a pocket knife.
“Elena,” the old woman sobbed. “Two men. They broke in. They had guns.”
“Where is Leo?” I begged, shaking her shoulders gently. “Where is my baby?”
“He hid,” she gasped, clutching her chest. “When they kicked the door, I told him to play the 'quiet game' in the secret spot. They searched everywhere, but they couldn't find him. They left right before you got here.”
I didn't wait. I ran down the hallway to the guest bedroom. Mrs. Higgins kept a large, hollow cedar chest at the foot of the bed. It was Leo’s favorite place to hide when we played hide-and-seek.
I threw the heavy wooden lid open.
Leo was curled in a tight ball at the bottom of the chest, his eyes squeezed shut, his little hands clamped over his ears.
“Leo!” I cried, reaching down and pulling him into my arms.
“Mommy!” he sobbed, burying his face in my neck. He was shaking violently, but he was safe. He was completely unharmed.
I collapsed onto the floor, holding him so tight I thought I might break him, burying my face in his soft hair, breathing in the scent of his strawberry shampoo.
Damian stood in the doorway, lowering his weapon. For a moment, the cold, hardened boss disappeared, replaced by a man staring at a mother and child with a look of profound, aching sorrow.
“I got you, baby,” I whispered, rocking Leo. “Mommy’s got you.”
Leo pulled back slightly, wiping his nose. “I was so quiet, Mommy. I hugged my train just like Daddy told me to.”
My brow furrowed. “Your train?”
Leo opened his small, sweaty fist. Resting in his palm was a vintage, hand-carved wooden train car. It was heavy, made of dark mahogany, with intricate little wheels.
David had given it to Leo the day before he died. He had told Leo it was a "magic protector." I had never thought twice about it.
I heard a sharp intake of breath.
Damian dropped his gun. The heavy weapon hit the carpet with a dull thud.
He walked slowly toward us, his eyes locked entirely on the wooden toy in my son's hand. His face was completely drained of color.
“Where did you get that?” Damian whispered, his voice trembling for the first time tonight.
“My husband gave it to him,” I said defensively, pulling Leo closer.
Damian slowly sank to his knees in front of us. He reached out a shaking hand, lightly tracing the small, carved initials on the bottom of the wooden train.
May you like
M. R.
“This wasn't your husband’s,” Damian said, a tear suddenly breaking free and rolling down his cheek. “I carved this. Twenty years ago. For my little brother, Marco. The night before he was murdered.”
