Chapter 4 - THE GIRL WITH THE GRAY EYES
“Let her go, Marcus.” Giovanni’s voice was dead calm, though his hand had already moved to the weapon holstered beneath his jacket.
“Drop it, Boss,” Marcus warned, his grip bruising my forearm. “I’m not letting you tear down everything we built for some street trash and a kid that isn't even yours.”
“If she isn't mine, why are you holding a gun to my housekeeper's head?”
The logic struck Marcus for a second, his grip loosening just a fraction. It was enough. Giovanni moved with terrifying speed, slamming a heavy silver candelabra across Marcus’s wrist.
The gun clattered to the marble floor. Before Marcus could recover, two of Giovanni’s security guards burst into the room, tackling the older man to the ground.
Bianca was sobbing in the corner.
Giovanni ignored her, gently taking my arm. “Are you hurt, Claire?”
“No, sir.” I rubbed my wrist, trying to slow my breathing.
“Good. Let's go.”
The drive to Union Station was a blur of rain and flashing streetlights. Giovanni drove his black SUV in silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I sat in the passenger seat, clutching my coat around me.
“Why did she hide things in the quilt?” Giovanni asked softly, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Because she knew no one else cared about it,” I answered honestly. “Your mother said people only look for secrets in safes and bank accounts. They ignore the things made with love.”
He swallowed hard, a muscle flexing in his jaw.
When we reached the massive, echoing hall of Union Station, it was past midnight. The crowds were thin. We checked the South Bend departure gates.
“There,” I whispered, pointing toward a wooden bench near Gate 4.
Sitting in the shadows was a woman in a worn gray coat. Beside her, asleep on the bench, was a little girl holding a battered pink backpack.
Giovanni froze. He stared at the sleeping child. Even from a distance, the shape of the little girl’s face was undeniably his.
We approached slowly. The woman looked up. Her eyes went wide with terror, and she immediately threw her body over the sleeping child.
“Please,” Elena begged, tears spilling over her cheeks. “I didn't tell him! I swear, I didn't tell him! Don't hurt her!”
Giovanni knelt slowly, keeping his hands visible. “Elena. I'm not here to hurt you. I didn't know.”
Elena stared at him, trembling. “Marcus said if I ever came near you, he would kill Mia. He said you ordered it.”
“I would never hurt my own child,” Giovanni whispered, his voice cracking.
Elena looked at me, recognizing me from the cemetery, then back to Giovanni. She let out a broken sob.
“Giovanni... Mia isn't your daughter.”
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The world seemed to stop. Giovanni reeled back. “What?”
“She's not your daughter,” Elena cried, pulling the child tighter. “She’s your sister.”
