Chapter 2 - THE GIRL UNDER THE OAK TREE
At 2:47 the following afternoon, three black sedans stopped outside St. Cecilia Children's Home.
Sister Teresa saw them through the front window.
So did every child old enough to understand that ordinary visitors did not arrive with men in dark coats who got out first and looked both ways before opening the rear door.
"Dear God," Sister Teresa murmured.
Dominic Moretti stepped onto the sidewalk.
He wore charcoal instead of black, no overcoat despite the December cold, and carried nothing in his hands.
No briefcase.
No flowers.
No oversized ceremonial check.
He had deliberately brought nothing.
He did not want to arrive as a donor.
He wanted to see the place.
The front doors opened before he reached them.
Sister Teresa stood waiting.
She was smaller than Dominic had imagined from her letter. Maybe sixty-five. White hair visible beneath her veil. A face lined by forty years of other people's grief.
"Mr. Moretti."
"Sister."
Her eyes flicked toward the men behind him.
"Are they necessary?"
Dominic glanced back.
Nico Santoro, his security chief, pretended not to hear.
"Probably not."
"Good."
Dominic raised one finger.
The men stopped outside.
Sister Teresa's mouth twitched.
It was not quite a smile.
"You take instructions remarkably well for a man people describe as difficult."
"People exaggerate."
"I work with children. I know lying when I hear it."
She turned and walked inside.
Dominic followed.
St. Cecilia smelled like floor polish, tomato soup, old radiators, and crayons.
The building had been a convent once. The hallways were narrow. Paint curled from one ceiling corner. Construction-paper snowflakes hung on red yarn above the front office.
A little boy in dinosaur pajamas ran past Dominic, stopped, looked up at him, and whispered loudly to another child, "That guy looks like a bad guy."
Dominic looked down.
The boy froze.
Dominic said, "Excellent instincts."
The child ran.
Sister Teresa laughed.
It was the first time Dominic had heard laughter around him that did not contain nervousness.
She led him through the dining hall.
Children watched from tables.
Some smiled.
Some stared.
One girl waved enthusiastically.
Dominic awkwardly lifted his hand.
"I should warn you," Sister Teresa said. "They know you gave money."
"I didn't tell anyone."
"I did."
"Why?"
"Because children should know that generosity has a face."
Dominic glanced at her.
"That sounds dangerously close to flattery."
"It wasn't. Some of them think generosity looks like Santa Claus."
They reached the courtyard doors.
Sister Teresa stopped.
"Before we go outside, I need to ask you something."
"Ask."
"Why did you come?"
Dominic looked through the glass.
Children were playing across the concrete.
"I don't know."
"That is an unusually honest answer."
"It irritated me."
"What?"
"Your sentence."
She nodded slowly.
"They need someone to come looking for them."
"Yes."
"You knew exactly what you were doing."
"Of course."
Dominic almost smiled.
Then he saw the girl.
The world did not stop.
That was something people only said afterward.
In reality, the world continued perfectly normally.
A ball bounced.
A child screamed with laughter.
A truck horn sounded somewhere beyond the walls.
A plane crossed the pale winter sky.
But something inside Dominic went completely silent.
Beneath the oak tree sat a small girl.
Dark brown hair.
Thin shoulders.
Gray cardigan buttoned wrong.
Black leggings.
Shoes that had been repaired at the toe.
She sat with her knees drawn up, staring at a photograph in her lap.
Dominic stopped breathing.
Not because of the girl.
Not yet.
Because the edge of the photograph was visible.
It was old.
Yellowing.
And he recognized the blue-striped beach umbrella in the background.
"No."
Sister Teresa turned.
Dominic opened the courtyard door.
"Mr. Moretti?"
He was already walking.
The girl noticed him when he was twenty feet away.
Her entire body changed.
She folded the photograph against her chest.
Dominic slowed.
He had entered rooms with armed men less carefully.
At ten feet, he stopped.
The girl's eyes lifted to his.
Dominic felt something tear through him.
Elena.
Not exactly.
But enough.
The same dark eyes.
The same slight tilt at the outer corners.
The same stubborn chin.
The girl watched him without speaking.
Dominic crouched.
"Hello."
No answer.
"My name is Dominic."
Still nothing.
He glanced at the photograph.
"Is that important to you?"
Her arms tightened.
He nodded.
"I won't touch it."
A pause.
Then the girl whispered, "People always say that first."
Dominic looked at her.
"What happens after?"
"They touch it."
"I won't."
Her eyes studied his face.
Children, Dominic realized, had none of the social instincts adults used to survive him.
They simply looked.
Finally, she turned the photograph slightly.
Only enough for him to see.
His blood went cold.
Elena stood on a Long Island beach wearing a white dress Dominic remembered with painful clarity.
Beside her was Dominic himself.
Twenty-nine years old.
Sunburned.
Laughing.
An arm around her waist.
He had never seen the photograph.
For a moment, he could hear nothing.
Then Mia said quietly:
"That's my father."
Sister Teresa had reached them.
She froze.
Dominic looked at Mia.
"Who told you that?"
"The woman who brought me here."
His pulse hammered.
"What did she say?"
Mia lowered her eyes to the picture.
"She said if I ever found him, I should ask him if he remembered the red kite."
Dominic went white.
Six years earlier.
Long Island.
September.
Elena had bought a red kite from a boardwalk shop because Dominic said he had never flown one as a child.
The kite had tangled in a tree.
Elena laughed so hard she fell into the sand.
No one knew about that day except the two of them.
Dominic sat down on the cold pavement.
He did not care what anyone saw.
"Mia."
She looked up.
"How old are you?"
"Eight."
Something inside him did the arithmetic.
Then did it again.
Elena had vanished nine years earlier.
Not six.
The memory hit differently now.
Nine years since she had disappeared.
Six years since Dominic had finally stopped searching.
Mia watched his face.
"Are you him?"
Dominic could not lie.
"I don't know."
Her expression closed immediately.
Of course it did.
Hope was dangerous to children who had survived disappointment.
Dominic looked at Sister Teresa.
"I want a DNA test."
"That can be arranged."
"Today."
Sister Teresa folded her arms.
"She is not one of your companies."
Dominic's jaw tightened.
"I didn't say she was."
"No. But you used the voice."
"What voice?"
"The one you use when you expect the world to jump."
Mia looked between them.
Dominic exhaled slowly.
Then turned back to the child.
"Would you let a doctor take a little blood from me and from you?"
Mia thought about it.
"Does it hurt?"
"A little."
"Then you first."
Dominic almost laughed.
"Fair."
Mia looked at him for another long moment.
Then asked, "If you're not him, will you go away?"
The question struck harder than any accusation.
Dominic's mouth opened.
Nothing came.
Finally he said, "I came here before I knew about the picture."
"That's not an answer."
Sister Teresa hid a smile.
Dominic looked directly at the girl.
"No."
Mia frowned.
"No what?"
"No. I won't disappear because of a test."
She searched his face.
"Promise?"
Dominic had made promises in rooms where men died for breaking them.
None had felt heavier.
"I promise."
Mia held out one hand.
Her little finger extended.
Dominic stared at it.
Sister Teresa whispered, "She wants you to pinky swear."
"I know what it is."
"Do you?"
He hooked his finger around Mia's.
Her hand was tiny.
Cold.
Dominic felt his throat tighten.
"Promise," Mia said again.
"Promise."
Across the street, inside a parked gray sedan, a man lifted his phone.
He took three photographs through a telephoto lens.
Dominic kneeling.
Mia holding out the photograph.
Their fingers linked.
He sent all three to a number saved under no name.
The reply came fifteen seconds later.
GET THE GIRL OUT OF THERE.
The man typed back.
TONIGHT?
The answer appeared.
BEFORE THE TEST COMES BACK.
Inside St. Cecilia, Sister Teresa was already arranging the appointment.
Dominic stood beneath the oak tree, Mia's photograph now visible between them.
He had spent twenty years believing enemies came armed.
May you like
For the first time in his life, he understood that the most dangerous thing anyone could put in front of him was something he could not bear to lose.
And somewhere in Manhattan, Marco Bellini was making sure Dominic Moretti would lose it before he ever understood what he had found.
