THE PURPLE STARS

Two weeks later.

The air in upstate New York was freezing, but the house was warm. It was a beautiful, two-story colonial with a wrap-around porch and a big backyard lined with pine trees. It looked exactly like the blue house I had drawn in crayon.

I was sitting at the massive oak dining table, coloring with a brand-new box of ninety-six crayons.

My mother was in the kitchen, humming as she cooked dinner. It was a sound I hadn't heard in years. The heavy, dark circles under her eyes were gone. She looked younger. She looked safe.

The front door opened.

Vincent Kane walked in, stomping the snow off his expensive leather boots. He was wearing a long wool coat, but he didn't look like the terrifying mob boss from Chicago anymore. He looked tired, but peaceful.

“Mr. Vincent!” I yelled, dropping my crayon and running toward him.

He caught me, lifting me up with a rare, genuine smile. “Hello, Rory. Have you been taking care of your mother?”

“Yes,” I said seriously. “And I drew you a picture.”

I squirmed down and ran back to the table, holding up a drawing of a big black car with poorly drawn flames coming out the back.

Vincent chuckled, accepting the paper like it was a vital contract. “I’ll put it on my fridge. It’s highly accurate.”

My mother walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a clean towel. She smiled at Vincent, a look of profound gratitude passing between them.

“The news out of Chicago has been wild,” she said softly.

Vincent walked over to the kitchen island, leaning against the marble. “Marcus’s network is entirely dismantled. The feds raided his East Coast warehouses yesterday using anonymous tips. The syndicate is stable. David Sterling and Marcus were recovered from the rubble. It’s over, Sarah.”

My mother let out a long, shaky breath. “Thank you. I don't know how I can ever repay you.”

Vincent reached into his coat. He pulled out a thick, leather-bound book and set it on the counter.

“You don't need to repay me,” Vincent said. “But I do have a proposition for you.”

My mother looked at the book. “What is that?”

“It’s the ledger for my legitimate businesses,” Vincent said. “Real estate, shipping, construction. Completely legal, completely clean. But my current accountants are… unimaginative. I saw how you hid Marcus’s offshore accounts in a single line of code. You’re brilliant, Sarah. I need a chief financial officer I can trust.”

My mother stared at the ledger, stunned. “You want me to work for you?”

“Only if you want to,” Vincent said. “You’ll work from here. Remotely. You make your own hours. The salary is substantial. And, I assure you, I never miss payroll.”

My mother reached out and traced the leather cover of the ledger. Tears pricked her eyes, but this time, they were happy. She wasn't a victim anymore. She wasn't a waitress hiding in fear. She was reclaiming her power.

“I accept,” she said, her voice steady and confident.

Vincent nodded, a look of deep respect in his eyes.

“Good,” he said. He reached into his pocket one last time.

He pulled out a thick envelope and handed it to me.

“What’s this?” I asked, holding the heavy paper.

“Open it,” Vincent said softly.

I tore the top open. Inside were crisp, new bills. A lot of them.

“Five thousand, four hundred, and thirty dollars,” Vincent said, looking at my mother. “Plus interest. I told you, Rory. I always keep my word.”

I looked at the money, then up at my mother. She was smiling, wiping a tear from her cheek.

I walked over to Vincent and hugged his leg tight. He patted my head gently.