Chapter 3 - THE BOY IN THE RAFTERS
“Hey there,” I said softly, stepping in front of Nico. I knew that looking at a seven-year-old while holding a gun wasn't going to help. I pressed my hand back against Nico’s chest, a silent plea for him to stay calm.
To my surprise, Nico lowered his weapon immediately and slipped it into his jacket.
The boy on the catwalk was shivering. He wore a faded Batman t-shirt that was three sizes too big, and his sneakers were scuffed to the worn rubber soles. But it was the way he gripped the silver music box that broke my heart—like it was a shield.
“My name is Emma,” I called up to him. “What’s your name?”
“Leo,” the boy whispered, taking a step backward. “You can’t have it. My mommy said never let the bad men take the silver box.”
Nico went incredibly still behind me.
“Leo,” Nico said, his voice surprisingly gentle, completely different from the terrifying mafia boss the city knew. “Did your mommy have dark hair and a gold necklace with a tiny cross?”
Leo’s eyes widened. He nodded slowly.
Nico swore under his breath in rapid Italian. He stepped forward. “Leo, I’m Nico. That box belonged to my mother, Lucia.”
“No!” Leo shouted, his voice cracking. “It’s mine! She gave it to me before the fire!”
I exchanged a look with Nico. A fire?
“Who gave it to you, sweetheart?” I asked.
“The nice lady with the warm hands,” Leo said, tears finally spilling over his dirt-smudged cheeks. “She smelled like vanilla. She came to my foster house and said this box would keep me safe.”
Lucia Bellini always smelled like vanilla. She baked pizzelles every Sunday.
“Emma,” Nico murmured, his voice tight with an emotion I couldn’t place. “My brother, Matteo, died in a warehouse fire five years ago. His wife died with him. They told me there were no survivors. They told me she was pregnant, but the baby didn't make it.”
I gasped, looking back up at the boy. Seven years old. The math made sense.
Lucia Bellini hadn’t just been giving to charity. She had been hiding her own grandson.
“Leo, please come down,” I coaxed, holding out my hands. “It’s cold up there. We won’t take the box. I promise.”
Leo hesitated, then slowly began to navigate the steep, rusty metal stairs. As he got closer, I noticed a dark, purple bruise blooming around his left wrist. Someone had grabbed him hard.
As soon as his feet hit the concrete, Nico knelt down so he was eye-level with the boy. The imposing, wealthy businessman was suddenly just an uncle looking at a ghost.
“Can I see it?” Nico asked softly, pointing to the box. “I won’t open it. I just want to touch the rose.”
Leo cautiously held it out. Nico traced the silver petals with a shaking finger.
Suddenly, the warehouse doors rattled violently. Headlights swept across the frosted windows. Tires screeched on the wet pavement outside.
“They’re back,” Leo whimpered, hiding behind my legs. “The men who took the dresses. They’re looking for the box!”
Nico stood up, his demeanor instantly snapping back to the hardened boss of the Bellini family. He drew his gun again.
“Emma, take him out the back service door,” Nico ordered, not taking his eyes off the main entrance.
“I’m not leaving you here alone,” I said.
“Do your job, Emma!” Nico barked. “Protect my family.”
The word family hung in the air.
I grabbed Leo’s hand and ran. We sprinted through the dark corridors of the warehouse, slipping out a rusted side door just as I heard the heavy main doors crash open, followed by the deafening crack of a gunshot.
I shoved Leo into the backseat of Nico’s unlocked SUV, climbing in after him. I locked the doors and pulled him down to the floorboards.
“Keep your head down,” I whispered fiercely, wrapping my arms around him.
Leo was crying silently, clutching the music box to his chest. In his panic, his small fingers fumbled the latch. The silver lid popped open.
The box didn’t play music.
Instead, a false bottom sprang up.
I looked down. There were no property deeds, no mafia ledgers, no money.
Inside was a single, crisp photograph, and a heavy gold watch.
I recognized the watch immediately. It belonged to Bianca Rossi’s father, the head of the rival Rossi family.
But it was the photograph that made my blood run cold.
It was a picture of Bianca’s father, shaking hands with the fire chief who had investigated the blaze that killed Nico’s brother. On the back, in Lucia Bellini’s elegant cursive handwriting, were three words:
He paid them.
A tap on the window made me scream.
May you like
I looked up. It wasn't Nico.
A man in a dark trench coat was staring at us through the glass, holding a crowbar. He raised it, ready to smash the window.
