Chapter 2 - The Ghost’s Name
Lorenzo did not reach for his sidearm immediately. He kept his breathing measured, his amber eyes closed to narrow slits beneath his dark lashes. His muscles tightened like coiled steel springs beneath the trench coat. He calculated the trajectory: whoever had breached the southern gardens had bypassed three perimeter sensors and two guard patrols.
A small, hesitant rustle echoed again. Then, the weight of something incredibly light pressed against Lorenzo’s extended left knee.
Lorenzo waited for the cold steel of a suppressor to press against his temple or the sharp prick of a poisoned blade. Instead, two tiny hands, sticky with what smelled faintly of stolen blackberry jam, gripped the lapel of his charcoal trench coat. With clumsy, determined effort, a tiny body scrambled up onto his torso.
Lorenzo’s right hand twitched toward his holster, but stopped dead.
Resting directly over his left pectoral—right above the loaded Colt .45 and directly over his beating heart—was the side of a small face. Lorenzo opened his eyes fully, the killing intent evaporating into pure, unfiltered bewilderment.
Sprawled across his chest was a little boy no older than four. The child wore faded denim overalls patched at the knees with mismatched gingham fabric, and his feet were completely bare, smeared with garden dirt and green grass stains. A riot of messy golden curls framed a chubby, angelic face that looked remarkably unbothered by the fact that he was sleeping on the most dangerous man in the Midwest.
Lorenzo stared down at the toddler. The boy’s tiny hand was open, resting flat against the heavy wool fabric covering Lorenzo’s revolver. The rhythmic rise and fall of the child’s chest matched Lorenzo’s own breathing. For the first time in a quarter of a century, Lorenzo Vance was completely paralyzed—not by fear, but by the profound, terrifying fragility of innocence.
How had a scullery maid’s brat wandered into the most heavily fortified sector of the estate? More importantly, why didn’t the child smell like fear? Children usually cried or hid behind their mothers whenever Lorenzo entered a room. This boy had climbed him like a warm oak tree.
As Lorenzo shifted slightly to lift the child off his chest without waking him, the little boy stirred. He rubbed his fists into his sleepy eyes, blinked against the dappled sunlight filtering through the willow branches, and looked directly up into Lorenzo’s intimidating amber gaze.
The boy didn't flinch. He let out a soft, contented yawn, nestled his cheek back down against the hard leather of Lorenzo’s shoulder holster, and mumbled three words that made the blood freeze in Lorenzo’s veins.
“Papa... Papa Matteo...”
Lorenzo’s hand shot out, gripping the boy’s small shoulder with just enough pressure to keep him from sliding off. Matteo. The name echoed like a gunshot in the silent garden. Matteo Vance had been Lorenzo’s younger brother, his closest confidant, and the most brilliant enforcer the family had ever produced. Five years ago, Matteo’s armored sedan had been blown to pieces on a lonely highway outside Milwaukee—an assassination that Lorenzo had violently avenged by slaughtering half the West Side Syndicate.
No one in this house spoke that name. It was forbidden. It was a ghost that haunted the darkest corners of Lorenzo’s mind.
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“What did you say?” Lorenzo whispered, his voice dangerously low, his thumb grazing the boy’s dirty collarbone. “Who taught you that name, kid?”
Before the boy could answer, the willow branches were frantically shoved aside. A woman stumbled into the shaded dome, her chest heaving, her face pale as bone, and her hands trembling uncontrollably as her gaze locked onto the Don of Chicago holding her child.
