Chapter 3
I sent twelve men back to the estate.
Not police.
Not outside security.
Mine.
Men who understood the difference between finding something and disturbing it.
Helena watched them leave from the hospital atrium.
“You're overreacting.”
I turned toward her.
“My son is unconscious.”
“He woke up.”
“You find that comforting?”
She said nothing.
Dominic tried another approach.
“Varela markings don't mean Varela weapons.”
I looked at him.
“How do you know they're weapons?”
He froze.
There it was.
Lily had said guns.
Not weapons.
Not crates.
And she had spoken quietly.
Dominic had been thirty feet away when she said it.
Still possible he heard.
But now he knew enough to correct terminology.
Interesting.
I walked toward him.
“What exactly is inside the boxes?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why did you say Varela markings?”
He looked toward Helena.
Another mistake.
I smiled.
“Good.”
Dominic frowned.
“What?”
“You just told me who you're afraid of.”
Helena stood.
“Stop this.”
I turned.
“You're protecting him.”
“He's my son.”
“And Noah is mine.”
Silence.
“Lily is Emma's.”
Helena's face changed.
“You always did get sentimental about servants.”
That sentence made several capos look away.
I stepped closer.
“Careful.”
She smiled.
“You think because the child cried, every adult in this family has to bow?”
“No.”
I looked toward Lily.
“She carried my fourteen-year-old son three miles barefoot after your son knocked him unconscious.”
Helena's smile disappeared.
“That child did more for my family tonight than you have.”
Her face hardened.
Good.
The trauma-room door opened.
Dr. Mercer stepped out.
I moved immediately.
“Noah?”
“Stable.”
I exhaled.
First real breath in an hour.
“Concussion. Significant impact to the left side. No internal bleeding.”
“Can I see him?”
“Yes. Briefly.”
I entered alone.
Noah looked too young in the hospital bed.
Fourteen is a strange age.
Big enough to think they're men.
Young enough to still sleep with one foot outside the blanket.
His eyes opened.
“Dad.”
I sat beside him.
“You scared me.”
He tried to smile.
“Sorry.”
“Don't.”
His eyes moved toward the door.
“Lily?”
“Safe.”
“Her mom?”
“We're finding her.”
He closed his eyes.
I waited.
Then:
“What did you see?”
His face tightened.
“Dominic.”
“Doing what?”
“Moving crates.”
“Into the hidden room?”
He nodded.
“With who?”
“Two guys I didn't know.”
“Varela?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“What?”
“The crates had Varela markings.”
“But the men weren't Varela.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
He opened his eyes.
“Because I heard Dominic tell them to make sure people thought they were.”
I leaned back.
There.
Not smuggling.
Framing.
“Why?”
Noah swallowed.
“He said after Friday nobody would care who really brought them in.”
“What's Friday?”
“I don't know.”
He looked away.
Then back.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“He wasn't hiding them from you.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“He kept saying you'd open the room yourself.”
My blood went cold.
“Why would I do that?”
Noah whispered:
“Because somebody is supposed to die there.”
I didn't move.
“Who?”
He shook his head.
“I didn't hear.”
Then he grabbed my wrist.
Harder than I expected.
“But Dominic said after that, you would start a war with Varela.”
Everything inside me settled.
The crates weren't being hidden.
They were being planted.
A murder.
Varela weapons.
My hidden room.
My anger.
Someone was building a war and expected me to start it for them.
I looked at my son.
“Who else heard?”
His face changed.
“Emma.”
I stood.
That was why she was missing.
May you like
Not because she found boxes.
Because she heard the reason they were there.
