Chapter 2 - THE HEART I REFUSED TO WASH OFF
I kept the heart.
Not permanently.
I was not insane.
But for almost three hours after Lily finished turning my face into something that looked like a children’s museum exhibit, I refused to wash off the crooked red heart she had painted beside the yellow sun.
That decision disturbed my staff more than any threat I had issued in years.
Vincent DeLuca, my head of security, entered the sitting room thirty minutes later carrying a folder.
He had worked for me eleven years.
He had been shot twice.
Stabbed once.
Arrested three times without conviction.
I had seen him drag a wounded man through broken glass without changing his expression.
He looked at my face and stopped walking.
I looked up from my paperwork.
“Something wrong?”
His eyes moved to the butterfly.
Then the rainbow.
Then the heart.
“No.”
“Good.”
A pause.
“Absolutely nothing.”
Lily sat on the rug beside me feeding imaginary soup to Buttons.
She looked up.
“Fred!”
Vincent closed his eyes.
His actual name was Vincent.
Lily had decided months ago that every security guard was named Fred until personally proven otherwise.
“This is Mister Vincent,” Elena corrected from the doorway.
Lily considered that.
“Vincent Fred.”
I looked down before anyone noticed me smiling.
Vincent placed the folder on the coffee table.
“We need to discuss the Cicero shipment.”
Elena immediately reached for Lily.
“We’ll go.”
I should have agreed.
Business was business.
My home might have been softer around Lily, but my life outside its gates had not become safe because a toddler found washable paint.
Instead I heard myself say, “Library.”
Vincent understood.
He followed me out.
Before leaving, Lily pointed at my face.
“Don’t wipe the heart.”
“I have a meeting.”
“So?”
Vincent coughed.
I stared at the child.
“So adults usually do not attend meetings with red hearts painted on their faces.”
“Why?”
A reasonable question from the perspective of someone who had never attended one.
I looked at Elena.
She covered her mouth.
Definitely laughing.
Traitor.
“Fine,” I said.
Lily beamed.
So twenty minutes later I sat at a twelve-foot walnut table discussing stolen cargo with three men who were visibly struggling not to look at my cheek.
It was the most productive meeting we had ever had.
Nobody wasted time.
Nobody performed.
Nobody tried to impress me.
Apparently a mafia boss with a painted butterfly created a sense of urgency.
When it ended, Vincent remained.
He waited until the door closed.
Then he looked at me.
“You want a mirror?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m aware.”
“Just checking.”
I leaned back.
“What did you actually want to say?”
His humor disappeared.
Vincent reached into his jacket and placed an envelope on the table.
My name was written across it.
No postage.
No return address.
“Gate camera?”
“Man in a delivery jacket dropped it near the outer wall.”
“Face?”
“Covered.”
“Vehicle?”
“Stolen.”
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Elena.
Lily.
Taken outside a grocery store.
The angle was distant.
Telephoto lens.
Elena held two bags.
Lily walked beside her carrying Buttons by one ear.
On the back were six words.
SHE STILL HAS WHAT HE HID.
Every bit of amusement disappeared from me.
“Who has seen this?”
“You.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“Marco in surveillance. That’s it.”
“Keep it that way.”
Vincent nodded.
I looked again.
“What do we know about Elena’s husband?”
“Dead.”
“I know that.”
“Mateo Morales. Thirty-three. Bookkeeper. Killed in a traffic collision almost three years ago.”
“Employer?”
Vincent hesitated.
That told me the answer mattered.
“Harbor East Import Services.”
My jaw tightened.
Harbor East sounded legitimate.
It was not.
Not entirely.
The company sat inside a network of businesses tied to Marco Bellini.
Bellini and I had been circling one another for years.
Not open war.
Chicago had learned what happened when powerful families turned streets into battlefields.
Bad for business.
Bad for politicians.
Bad for everyone.
But Bellini and I had fought quietly over shipping contracts, union access, clubs, development projects, and men who preferred to change allegiance when someone offered more money.
“Did Elena know?”
“We don’t know.”
“Find out.”
Vincent looked toward the door.
“Adrian.”
“What?”
“You need to move them.”
“Where?”
“Off property.”
I stared at him.
“The photograph was taken outside her neighborhood. Whoever sent it knows where she lives.”
“Exactly.”
“So you want me to send them back?”
“No. Safe apartment.”
“Mine?”
“One of ours.”
I looked at the photograph again.
Lily’s small yellow coat.
Buttons swinging at her side.
The message.
SHE STILL HAS WHAT HE HID.
“What did Mateo hide?”
Vincent shook his head.
“No idea.”
“Find it before Bellini does.”
I stood.
“Quietly.”
“You think Bellini sent this?”
“I think anybody who photographs a three-year-old to threaten her mother deserves to spend the rest of the week regretting their choices.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
He knew that tone.
“Adrian.”
“What?”
“Don’t turn this personal before we understand it.”
Too late.
I left the library.
Elena was cleaning paint from the table.
Lily had fallen asleep on the sofa, one hand curled around Buttons.
I stood in the doorway.
For several seconds, Elena did not notice me.
Then she looked up.
Her expression softened when she saw my face.
“You really kept it.”
“Temporarily.”
She smiled.
A real smile.
Not employee politeness.
Something warmer.
It disappeared when she saw my expression.
“What happened?”
I closed the door.
“Elena.”
Her shoulders stiffened.
“Yes?”
“Who was Mateo working for when he died?”
Everything about her changed.
Not dramatically.
That was what scared me.
Her hand stopped moving.
Her face emptied.
Her eyes shifted toward Lily.
Then back to me.
“Why?”
“Answer.”
She lowered her voice.
“Harbor East.”
“You knew who owned it?”
“No.”
“That was too fast.”
Her eyes flashed.
“I knew it was an import company.”
“Elena.”
“What?”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Anger appeared.
Good.
Anger was easier to read than fear.
“I am not lying.”
“Did Mateo ever mention Marco Bellini?”
Her face went white.
There.
She knew the name.
Not necessarily the connection.
But enough.
“Once.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me if anyone ever came to the apartment asking about Marco Bellini, I should take Lily and leave.”
My blood went cold.
“When?”
“Two weeks before he died.”
“Why did you never tell police?”
“I did.”
“What?”
She stared at me.
“I told the detective who investigated the accident.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Think.”
“Why?”
I pulled out the photograph.
Elena saw it.
Every bit of color drained from her face.
She grabbed the edge of the table.
“Where did you get that?”
“Delivered today.”
She took it.
Her fingers began shaking.
She turned it over.
Read the words.
Then looked at Lily.
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“Elena.”
“No.”
She rushed to the sofa.
“Lily.”
The child stirred.
Elena lifted her immediately.
Lily mumbled something and buried her face against her mother’s shoulder.
“I need to go.”
“No.”
Elena turned.
“I am not asking.”
“Neither am I.”
Her expression hardened.
“You do not get to tell me I can’t leave.”
Correct.
And hearing it reminded me how easily protection could become control.
I forced my voice lower.
“You’re right.”
She stopped.
“You can leave.”
I nodded toward the photograph.
“But not to your apartment.”
“I have nowhere else.”
“You do now.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“This isn’t charity.”
“I don’t want your protection either.”
“That one is less optional.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Mr. Romano—”
“Adrian.”
“What?”
“If someone is photographing your child because of a dead man’s connection to Bellini, formality is the least of our problems.”
Lily lifted her head.
“Mama?”
Elena immediately softened.
“It’s okay.”
Lily looked at me.
Then frowned.
“Your butterfly is smudged.”
Of course that was what she noticed.
I touched my forehead.
“Tragedy.”
She reached toward me.
Elena pulled her gently back.
“Not now, baby.”
Lily looked between us.
Children sensed tension long before adults admitted it.
I hated that.
I crouched so I was closer to her height.
“Lily.”
“Yes, Mister Big House?”
“We’re going to have a sleepover.”
Her eyes widened.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“With pancakes?”
I looked at Elena.
She stared back.
Terrified.
Angry.
Exhausted.
But not refusing yet.
“With pancakes,” I said.
Lily cheered.
Elena closed her eyes.
I stood.
“I’ll explain everything I know.”
“You’d better.”
“I will.”
“And if I decide we leave?”
“Then I’ll arrange somewhere safe that you choose.”
That mattered.
I saw it.
Some tension left her shoulders.
“Okay.”
One word.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But permission.
Vincent came to the doorway.
“Adrian.”
His face told me something else had happened.
“What?”
“We ran the photograph.”
“And?”
“The grocery store footage confirms someone followed Elena for seventeen minutes.”
She held Lily tighter.
“Who?”
Vincent looked at me.
“We don’t know.”
“What else?”
He hesitated.
“Another camera caught him leaving.”
“And?”
“He met someone in a black sedan three blocks away.”
“Plate?”
“Registered to the City of Chicago.”
Elena stared.
“Police?”
“Unmarked fleet vehicle.”
Her breath caught.
I felt something old and dangerous wake inside me.
Mateo had warned her about Bellini.
Then died.
Elena had reported the warning to police.
Nothing happened.
Now someone using a city vehicle was following her daughter.
This was no longer just Bellini.
It was Bellini and someone wearing a badge.
I looked down at Buttons.
The rabbit’s missing ear hung by a rough seam.
Something about it bothered me.
“Has that always been torn?”
Elena looked.
“Since before Mateo died.”
Lily hugged the rabbit tighter.
“Daddy fixed him.”
I went still.
“What?”
Lily pointed at the damaged ear.
“Daddy put him better.”
Elena’s eyes slowly moved toward mine.
I saw the same thought arrive.
SHE STILL HAS WHAT HE HID.
I looked at the battered stuffed rabbit.
Then at the frightened mother holding him.
May you like
Whatever Mateo Morales died protecting might have been sitting on my sofa for months.
And a three-year-old girl had carried it through my gates without anyone realizing.
