Chapter 3 - THE BOY IN THE BLUE COAT
The silence in the backstage area was absolute, broken only by the frantic breathing of the guard on the phone.
“What do you mean, he’s gone?” Alessandro’s voice didn’t rise. It dropped, becoming something cold and terrifying. The legitimate businessman vanished; the Chicago boss took his place.
“Ten minutes ago, sir. Two black SUVs. They had the gate codes. They knew exactly which room Leo was in.”
Alessandro hung up without another word. He stared at the silver locket in his palm.
“She traded him,” Alessandro whispered, a horrifying realization dawning on his face. “Camille’s brother doesn’t just deal in stolen art. He owes millions to the Russian syndicate. She didn’t steal the paintings to sell them. She stole them to pay off his debt. And she gave them Leo as collateral.”
I felt sick to my stomach. A six-year-old boy.
“Mr. Romano,” I said quickly. “The restoration gallery. The paperwork said Camille’s brother ordered an appraisal today. If they have the paintings and the boy, they might be moving them together.”
He looked at me, his eyes sharp. “You saw the address on the work order?”
“Yes. It’s on the West Side. Near the old rail yards.”
“Rossi!” Alessandro barked, walking rapidly toward the kitchen exit. His security chief appeared instantly. “Get the cars. We’re going to the West Side.”
He stopped and looked back at me. “Go home, Claire. Lock your doors. Do not answer for anyone but my men.”
I wanted to listen to him. I really did.
But as I grabbed my coat from the staff locker room, I noticed something sticking out of the pocket of Camille’s expensive trench coat, which was hanging on the VIP rack.
It was a crumpled piece of paper.
I pulled it out. It was a printed flight itinerary.
Two tickets to Geneva, Switzerland. Departing from O'Hare International Airport at 11:30 PM.
I checked my watch. It was 9:15 PM.
They weren’t at the West Side gallery. That was a decoy. They were going to the airport.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Alessandro. It went straight to voicemail.
I ran out the back door of the mansion. The rain was coming down in sheets, slicking the cobblestone driveway. I jumped into my beat-up Honda Civic and peeled out of the gates, heading straight for the airport.
The drive was a blur of flashing brake lights and pounding windshield wipers. When I finally reached Terminal 5, I sprinted through the automatic doors, my maid’s uniform soaked beneath my cheap jacket.
I scanned the massive international departures hall. Hundreds of people.
Then, I saw him.
A little boy in a bright blue winter coat, sitting on a leather bench near the VIP lounge. He had dark curly hair and was clutching a small, stuffed bear.
Standing over him was Camille’s brother, Marcus, talking frantically on a cell phone.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
I walked right up to the bench, grabbed the little boy’s hand, and said, “Come on, Leo. Your uncle sent me.”
The boy looked up at me with massive, terrified brown eyes. But when I said his uncle’s name, he immediately stood up.
Marcus turned around, his face twisting in shock. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He lunged for me.
Before he could grab my arm, a massive hand clamped down on his shoulder, spinning him around.
It was Rossi.
And right behind him was Alessandro.
“You missed your flight, Marcus,” Alessandro said quietly.
Marcus went pale, raising his hands. “Alessandro, wait, it wasn’t my idea—Camille told me to—”
Rossi shoved Marcus into the wall, pinning him there with one hand.
Alessandro knelt down in the middle of the crowded terminal, ignoring the stares of the passengers. He pulled Leo into a fierce, crushing hug.
“I got you, piccolo,” Alessandro whispered, burying his face in the boy’s curls. “I got you.”
Leo hugged him back tightly. “Uncle Sandro. The lady said you didn’t want me anymore.”
Alessandro closed his eyes. When he opened them and looked up at me, there was a depth of gratitude in his expression that made my breath catch.
“How did you know?” Alessandro asked me over the noise of the terminal.
“I found their flight itinerary in her coat,” I said, shivering in my wet clothes.
Alessandro stood up, lifting Leo into his arms. “Rossi, call the police on Marcus. Tell them he attempted kidnapping. I want him ruined before sunrise.”
“Yes, boss.”
Alessandro put a heavy, warm hand on my back. “Come with us. You’re freezing.”
We walked out to his waiting town car. The heater was blasting. Alessandro wrapped Leo in a thick cashmere blanket.
“You saved his life tonight, Claire,” Alessandro said, his voice rough.
“I just read a piece of paper, Mr. Romano.”
“Call me Alessandro.”
He looked at Leo, who was already falling asleep against his chest.
Then, Leo shifted, and something slipped out of the little boy’s pocket.
It was a child’s crayon drawing.
I picked it up. It was a drawing of a house with a red roof, a big tree, and a dog.
But down in the corner, written in perfect, elegant cursive—handwriting that certainly didn't belong to a six-year-old—was a single phrase.
“Tell the maid she’s looking at the wrong frame.”
My blood ran cold.
“Alessandro,” I whispered, handing him the drawing.
He stared at the cursive writing, his jaw tightening.
“That’s my father’s handwriting,” Alessandro said, his voice barely a breath.
May you like
I stared at him. “I thought your father died twenty years ago.”
“He did,” Alessandro said, staring at the drawing. “Or so I was told.”
