Chapter 2 - The Mother Behind the Locked Door“Where does your mother live?”
Lily pointed toward the western side of the street.
“Above the laundromat. The stairs smell funny.”
I looked at Vincent.
“Get two men to check that car. Quietly. Nobody approaches the driver unless I give the order.”
He nodded, then lowered his voice.
“And the name on that paper?”
I folded it carefully.
“Not here.”
Vincent understood the warning. He had served beside me for seventeen years, long enough to know when a question had become dangerous.
We continued toward the restaurant.
I bought six bowls of chicken soup instead of two, along with bread, bottled water, fruit, and enough groceries to feed a family for a week. Lily watched every item go into the bags with growing anxiety.
“That's too much, sir.”
“No, it isn't.”
“Mommy won't like it.”
“Then tell her I have terrible manners and don't know how to buy less food.”
She considered this.
“Mommy says rich people usually know how to do everything.”
“Your mother has never met me.”
Lily gave me a skeptical look.
“I think she might like you.”
I wasn't prepared for how much that simple sentence affected me.
By the time we reached the laundromat, the temperature had dropped further. Dirty snow crunched beneath our shoes. A narrow stairwell stood between two boarded windows, with a faded sign advertising apartments upstairs.
Vincent went ahead and checked the entrance.
“Clear.”
I followed Lily up three flights of stairs. The hallway smelled of damp plaster, detergent, and old cooking oil. Several doors lined the walls, but the girl went straight to the last one.
She knocked twice.
“Mommy? It's me.”
Silence.
She knocked again, harder.
“Mommy, I brought soup!”
Nothing.
Lily's smile vanished.
She tried the handle. The door opened a few inches.
“Mommy?”
The room beyond was dark.
I pushed the door wider and stepped inside.
The apartment consisted of a tiny kitchen, a sagging sofa, and a single bedroom separated by a curtain. The radiator rattled uselessly beneath a window sealed with plastic. A stack of unpaid bills covered the table, and an empty medicine bottle lay beside a glass of water.
Lily dropped the bag of groceries.
“Mommy!”
She ran into the bedroom.
I followed and found a woman lying beneath a thin blanket. Her face was pale, her lips dry, and strands of dark hair clung to her forehead. A harsh cough escaped her as she struggled to open her eyes.
Then she saw me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Her eyes widened in disbelief.
“No.”
It was barely a whisper.
“Dominic?”
The sound of my name in her voice awakened memories I had buried beneath years of blood, money, and carefully constructed lies.
“Isabel.”
She tried to sit up, but pain folded her back against the pillow.
“What are you doing here?”
“Your daughter asked me for two dollars.”
Isabel turned toward Lily. Even through her fever, panic sharpened her expression.
“Lily, go into the kitchen.”
“But Mommy, I brought—”
“Now.”
The little girl flinched.
I looked at Isabel, understanding immediately that whatever she feared, it wasn't me buying her soup.
I crouched beside the bed.
“You're burning with fever. When did you last see a doctor?”
“I don't need one.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“Dominic, please leave.”
I had negotiated territory with men who had killed entire families to gain an advantage. I had sat across from federal prosecutors and watched them try to hide their fear.
But I had never seen Isabel look at me as if my presence might get her daughter killed.
Vincent appeared at the bedroom door.
“Boss, we need to talk.”
“Not now.”
“It can't wait.”
I glanced over my shoulder. He was holding a photograph.
In it, Isabel stood outside an office building eleven years earlier, carrying a leather briefcase. Beside her stood my younger brother, Marco, smiling with one arm around her shoulders.
On the reverse side, someone had written a date.
The day Marco died.
Vincent's voice dropped.
“Isabel Morales wasn't just your brother's friend. She was working for him.”
I turned toward the bed.
“Is that true?”
Isabel closed her eyes.
“I was his accountant.”
The room seemed to tilt around me.
Marco had been more than my younger brother. He had been the only person in my life who could tell me I was wrong without worrying about waking up dead. When his car was found burning beside the river eleven years earlier, I had buried the only family I had left.
The police called it a robbery.
My organization called it an ambush.
I had spent eleven years hunting the people responsible.
“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked.
Isabel's eyes filled with tears.
“Because Marco was afraid you would kill the wrong person.”
Before I could answer, an engine roared outside.
Vincent hurried to the window.
A black sedan had pulled up beside the laundromat. Two men emerged wearing dark coats.
One carried a photograph.
The other carried a gun.
Isabel grabbed my wrist with surprising strength.
“Dominic, listen to me. They know Lily brought you here.”
“Who are they?”
She swallowed.
“The men who killed Marco.”
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Then the lights went out.
And somewhere below us, a door slammed.
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