THE PURPLE STARS

Years passed.

The blue house in New York remained our fortress, but it never felt like a prison. It felt like home.

My mother thrived. Working as Vincent’s CFO, she reorganized his entire legitimate portfolio, making him wealthier than his illicit dealings ever could have. She became a force of nature, confident and secure. She never looked over her shoulder again.

Vincent visited us every few months. He never brought his guards inside the house. He would sit on the porch, drink coffee with my mother, and ask about my grades. To the rest of the world, he was the dangerous head of the Kane family. To us, he was just Uncle Vincent.

When I turned eighteen, I graduated high school at the top of my class.

The graduation ceremony was held on a sunny afternoon on the football field. I stood in my blue cap and gown, searching the crowded bleachers.

I saw my mother, beaming with pride, holding a bouquet of flowers.

And sitting next to her, wearing a sharp charcoal suit and sunglasses, was Vincent.

After the ceremony, I ran up to them. My mother hugged me so hard she nearly knocked my cap off.

“I am so proud of you, Rory,” she cried, kissing my cheek.

Vincent stepped forward. He didn't hug me—he was never much for physical affection—but he held out a small, flat jewelry box.

“Congratulations, kid,” Vincent said, his voice as gravely as I remembered it from when I was four.

I took the box and opened it.

Inside, resting on black velvet, was a delicate silver necklace. Hanging from the chain was a small, beautifully crafted star. It wasn't diamond or gold. It was made of deep purple amethyst.

I looked up at him, my throat suddenly tight.

“I told you there wouldn't be any more purple stars for going hungry,” Vincent said softly. “But I thought you should have one to remember how far you’ve come. And to remember that you are the bravest person I ever met.”

I reached out and hugged him. He stiffened for a second, then gently patted my back.

“Thank you, Vincent,” I whispered.

I put the necklace on immediately. The cool silver rested against my collarbone, a quiet reminder of the day a little girl walked past six armed guards to hand a piece of paper to the most dangerous man in Chicago.

We walked toward the parking lot together. The sun was setting, casting a warm golden glow over the trees.

I looked at my mother, laughing and talking with Vincent, her eyes bright and fearless. I touched the purple star on my chest.

David Sterling was gone. Marcus was a ghost. The fear that had ruled my early childhood was nothing more than a bad dream.