Chapter 3 - Silence and Peonies
The eastern wing of the Valdez mansion was dedicated entirely to Leo, but it felt more like a luxury hospital ward than a child's nursery. The walls were a sterile, muted gray, the furniture custom-built from dark mahogany, and the massive windows were lined with bulletproof glass that looked out over the black waters of Lake Michigan.
Nola sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, her arm wrapped around Leo as the boy finally began to drift into a troubled sleep. His small fingers slowly relaxed, releasing her sleeve for the first time in hours.
She stood up quietly, her bones cracking from the tension. She walked over to the large bay window, looking out at the storm tossing the pine trees below. She felt like a ghost trapped inside an ancient castle. She had spent her life surrounded by vibrant colors, the sweet fragrance of roses, eucalyptus, and damp earth. This place felt dead. It felt like a tomb where hope had been outlawed.
The door to the nursery clicked open without a sound.
Damian stepped into the room, his tie gone, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone to reveal the base of a jagged scar that extended toward his collarbone. He looked at the bed, ensuring Leo was fully asleep, before walking over to stand beside Nola at the window.
"He didn't wake up when you moved," Damian noted, his baritone voice a low rumble against the glass.
"He’s exhausted, Mr. Valdez," Nola said softly, her eyes remaining on the dark lake. "Grief takes a massive physical toll on a child. His body is essentially shutting down to protect his brain from the trauma."
Damian let out a short, bitter breath. "The specialists said the same thing. Three thousand dollars an hour for men from Harvard to tell me my nephew is sad. None of them could get him to sit in a room without screaming."
"They were trying to force him to speak with words," Nola said, turning her head to look at his sharp profile. "Children don't communicate with vocabulary when they’re broken. They communicate with presence. He didn't need a doctor tonight. He just needed someone who was willing to sit in the dark with him without asking for anything in return."
Damian shifted his gaze to her face. In the dim moonlight filtering through the glass, his gray eyes looked like molten silver. "You have a lot of opinions for a girl who sweeps up dead leaves for a living."
"Flowers aren't just leaves, Mr. Valdez," Nola said, her voice rising with a gentle, unyielding strength. "They are a language. When people can't say 'I love you' or 'I’m sorry for your loss,' they give peonies. They give roses. I don't sweep leaves. I translate the things people are too broken to say out loud."
Damian didn't answer immediately. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver pocket knife, his thumb tracing the intricate carvings on the handle—the crest of the Valdez family line.
"My sister-in-law, Leo’s mother, was killed in front of him during a border dispute with the Marcone syndicate," Damian said, his voice dropping so low it was nearly swallowed by the wind outside. "He stayed in that room with her body for four hours before my men found him. He was covered in her blood, Nola. He didn't cry. He just sat there, holding her hand, looking at the wall."
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Nola felt a cold wave of horror wash through her chest. She looked toward the bed where the tiny boy was sleeping, his brow furrowed in a permanent nightmare.
"The men who did it are still breathing," Damian whispered, his jaw tightening until the bone looked ready to break through his skin. "And until they stop breathing, this house will remain a fortress. If you want to bring your flowers in here, do it. But remember one thing, sweetheart—color attracts attention. And attention in my world gets people buried."
