Chapter 4 - THE PEDIATRIC WARD
Clara’s demand hung in the quiet nursery.
Rico frowned, his grip tightening on the manila folder Dante had just given him. “You’re a waitress, Clara. Don't push your luck. Tell me what you saw.”
“I saw his wrist,” Clara whispered, stepping closer so her voice wouldn’t carry into the hallway. “He has a scratch right below his watch. It’s fresh. And it’s shaped exactly like the star charm on that bracelet.”
Rico went entirely still. The shattered-ice eyes turned terrifyingly blank. For a man who built an empire on loyalty, the implication was a physical blow.
“Dante is my brother,” Rico said, a dangerous edge bleeding into his tone. “He pulled me out of the gutter when we were kids. He wouldn't taunt me with my dead wife's jewelry.”
“Then why does his cologne smell like the gasoline on that metal?” Clara pushed, her survival instincts screaming at her to back down, but the memory of Leo’s terrified crying kept her rooted. “Look at the file, Mr. Moretti. Please.”
Rico broke eye contact. He flipped open the thick manila folder.
He expected to see shipping manifests and stolen dock numbers. Instead, Clara watched his face morph from anger to utter confusion.
Clara leaned over. Inside the folder was a bank statement. It wasn't showing money skimmed by a rival family. It was showing a direct, recurring wire transfer from Dante’s personal offshore account.
Fifty thousand dollars a month.
“He’s paying someone,” Rico murmured, tracing the routing number.
Clara’s eyes scanned the receiving address printed at the top of the ledger. “It’s not a person. Look at the name. St. Jude’s Private Pediatric Clinic. It's in upstate New York.”
Rico stared at the paper. “A pediatric clinic? Dante doesn't have kids. He hates kids.”
Before they could piece it together, a soft whimper came from the bed.
Leo was sitting up, his eyes wide and glassy with night terrors. He wasn't screaming this time, but tears were silently pouring down his red cheeks. His tiny hands were clutching a crumpled piece of construction paper he had pulled from under his pillow.
Clara immediately rushed to the bed, dropping to her knees. “Hey, sweetheart. It’s okay. I’m right here.”
Leo didn't reach for her. He held the paper out toward his father.
Rico took it, his large hands trembling slightly as he unfolded the child’s drawing.
Clara looked over his shoulder. It was drawn in heavy, frantic red and orange crayons. Fire. In the center of the flames were two stick figures holding hands. Both had long hair.
Above them, written in clumsy, jagged letters by someone older than three, were the words: TWO MOMMIES.
Rico’s breath hitched. “What is this? Elena was alone in the car.”
“He wasn't drawing the crash,” Clara realized, a cold dread washing over her. “Leo is three. He was barely two when his mother died. He couldn't have drawn this. Someone gave this to him.”
Rico looked at the drawing, then at the bank statement, and finally at the door Dante had just walked through.
“Answer One, Open Two,” Rico whispered bitterly, citing an old street rule. Every truth you find just uncovers two bigger lies. Dante was paying a pediatric clinic. Dante planted the burnt bracelet. And someone was trying to tell Leo about two women in a fire.
“We have to leave,” Clara said, pulling Leo into her arms. “Right now. Dante knows I saw his wrist. He knows I know.”
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany door of the nursery clicked shut.
The lock turned from the outside with a sharp, heavy clack.
May you like
Rico lunged for the handle, but it was deadbolted.
From the hallway, Dante’s voice came through the thick wood, calm and perfectly detached. “I really wish you had just taken the cash and gone home, waitress.”
