Chapter 3 - Apartment 3C
The stairwell of the tenement building smelled of old cabbage, damp plaster, and the sharp, chemical tang of cheap radiator fluid. The yellow paint on the walls was peeling away in long, curled ribbons, revealing the grey rot beneath. Elena climbed slowly, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Her bruised ankle—the one she had twisted three weeks ago while scrubbing the grand staircase at the mansion—ached with a dull, burning heat.
Vincent followed her exactly two flights behind, his large frame navigating the narrow landings with the terrifying grace of a predator. He heard her footsteps stop on the third floor. He heard the metallic jingle of keys, followed by the heavy, stubborn groan of a deadbolt sliding back.
By the time Vincent reached the landing of the third floor, the door to Apartment 3C was cracked open just a sliver, a feeble wedge of warm, yellow light spilling onto the stained linoleum outside.
He didn't burst through the door. He didn't draw the compact Beretta hidden beneath his left armpit. He simply leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, his blue eyes peering through the gap into the tiny, suffocating room.
The apartment was barely larger than Vincent’s walk-in closet. A single mattress lay directly on the floor in the corner, covered in a faded patchwork quilt that had been mended so many times the original pattern was lost. In the center of the room sat a chipped plastic folding table and two mismatched chairs.
Sitting in one of those chairs was a boy. He couldn't have been older than seven, his hair the same pale blonde as Elena’s, but his cheeks were hollow, his skin holding that translucent, bluish quality that only comes from prolonged deprivation. He was wearing an oversized grey sweater that swallowed his small frame, his thin fingers trembling as he held a broken green crayon, carefully coloring the edge of a piece of cardboard.
"Misha," Elena’s voice broke through the quiet room. It didn't sound like the timid, apologetic voice she used in the Marcelli kitchen. It was fierce. Melodic. Alive.
The boy looked up, his face instantly transforming with a wide, brilliant smile that showed a missing front tooth. "Lenka! You're early!"
Elena dropped her wet coat onto the floor, ignoring the puddle it made, and fell to her knees in front of the boy’s chair. She threw her arms around his small waist, burying her face in his sweater. For a long, agonizing moment, she just held him, her shoulders shaking with silent, heavy sobs that she refused to let him hear.
"Look what I brought tonight, Misha," she whispered, pulling away and wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve. She reached into the wet plastic bag, her hands careful as she set the foil-wrapped chicken breast and the small container of pasta on the plastic table. "The chef made the special cream sauce today. And look—" She produced the bruised apple, setting it down like it was a prize jewel. "A sweet one. Just for you."
The boy’s eyes went wide. He didn't dig in with the frantic grease-greed of a wild animal; instead, he looked at the food with a strange, quiet reverence. "Did the king let you have it?"
Elena’s hand froze on the container. She forced a soft, reassuring smile onto her lips, her fingers gently brushing a stray lock of blonde hair from her brother’s forehead.
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"Yes, Misha. The king has so much food in his palace. The tables are longer than our whole street, and they have silver platters that stay full all day. He doesn't mind if we have a little bit of the sunshine from his garden."
Outside in the dark hallway, Vincent Marcelli felt a sudden, crushing weight slam into his chest. The king. She had told her brother he was a king who shared his sunshine, while his own family called her a thief for saving her brother from starvation. He looked at the bruised apple on the table, then down at his own clean, white hands. The most feared man in Chicago felt a tear break from his eye, tracking hot and silent down his cold cheek. The thief in his house hadn't been Elena. It had been hunger all along.
