Chapter 2 - The Choice Behind the Chain
The silence in the narrow apartment hallway felt heavy enough to crush me. Through the small gap permitted by the security chain, Marco’s eyes remained fixed on mine. He didn’t blink. He didn’t shift his weight. He stood there like a statue carved from wealth and implied violence.
“Miss Carter,” Marco repeated, his voice a low, smooth baritone that lacked any trace of a regional accent. “Time is a luxury neither of us possesses. The longer the boy stays here, the larger the target on this building becomes. I suggest you unlatch the door.”
My mind raced, stumbling over a thousand questions. How did he know my name? I hadn’t given it to Mikey. My diner nametag just said El. But then I looked down at the mail counter near the door. A discarded electric bill sat there, face up. Eleanor Carter. A man like Marco didn’t need magic to find a name; he just needed eyes that noticed everything.
I turned my head slightly to look back into the apartment. Mikey was pressed against the kitchen counter, his small hands gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white. He was shaking again, the brief warmth from the hot bath and the clean clothes completely erased by the three knocks on my door.
If they take me back, will you leave me there alone?
The question hung in the air, unspoken but deafening. If I opened this door, I was handing a terrified child over to a man who represented a father feared “before they ever see his face.” But if I kept the door shut, what then? I was a waitress living paycheck to paycheck. My only weapon was a dull pairing knife in the kitchen drawer.
“What does his father want with him?” I asked, keeping my voice as steady as possible.
Marco let out a soft, patient breath. “He wants his son back, Miss Carter. A natural desire for a parent, wouldn't you say?”
“He doesn’t want me,” Mikey’s voice cracked from the shadows of the kitchen. He stepped forward, his oversized sweatpants dragging on the linoleum. “He wants the heir. He wants the piece of paper Mom left behind.”
Marco’s gaze shifted slightly, looking past my shoulder toward the boy. The coldness in his eyes softened just a fraction—not into kindness, but into a strange sort of professional pity. “Master Michael. Your father has been beside himself. The household is in chaos.”
“Good,” Mikey spat, though his voice trembled. “Let it burn.”
“Mikey, go into the bedroom,” I commanded softly, not taking my eyes off Marco.
“Miss Carter, I advise against complicating this,” Marco said, placing a gloved hand flat against the wood of the door. He didn’t push, but the threat was clear. “There are other men downstairs. They are not as patient as I am. If I do not walk out of this building with the boy in five minutes, they will come up. And they do not care about building codes, neighbors, or the chain on your door.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked at Marco’s tailored coat, then back at Mikey’s terrified, tear-streaked face. Instinct had gotten me into this. Instinct had told me to feed a hungry boy. And right now, that same instinct was screaming that if Mikey went back into that dark world alone, he wouldn’t survive it.
“Five minutes,” I said to Marco.
“Four minutes and forty seconds,” he corrected smoothly.
I closed the door, unlatched the chain, and opened it fully. Marco stepped inside, immediately bringing the scent of expensive cologne, rain, and leather into my cramped living room. He looked out of place among my thrift-store furniture, like a piece of fine art placed in a garage.
Instead of grabbing Mikey, Marco simply stood by the coat rack. “Pack his things. Though, looking at what he wears, there is nothing worth keeping.”
“He keeps the clothes,” I said, stepping between Marco and the boy. “And I’m coming with him.”
Marco’s eyebrows rose slightly. “That was not part of the arrangement, Miss Carter.”
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“Then the arrangement is off,” I said, my voice bolder than I felt. “You said it yourself—he’s the son of a powerful man. If you try to drag both of us out of here screaming, the neighbors will call the real police. It’ll be a scene. But if I come quietly, Mikey comes quietly. Choose.”
Marco stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he bowed his head a fraction of an inch. “The car is waiting downstairs.”
