Chapter 4 - THE LITTLE BOY WITH THE BROKEN ROBOT
I ran down the stairs before anyone could stop me.
My phone was already in my hand.
Ruth answered on the second ring.
“Lily?”
“Is Noah okay?”
A pause.
“Of course. He's asleep.”
“Lock the doors.”
“What's happened?”
“Please, Ruth. Lock everything.”
I heard movement.
Then the click of the deadbolt.
“Done.”
I closed my eyes.
My son was six years old.
He had dark hair, a crooked smile, and the stubborn belief that every broken toy could be repaired.
His father had left us two years earlier.
Ethan had never liked the way pregnancy changed my body.
He had never liked the scars from my emergency surgery.
He had never liked the fact that I stopped apologizing for taking up space.
When Noah was four, Ethan walked out.
He left behind unpaid bills, cruel memories, and a child who still asked why Daddy didn't come home.
I had spent two years trying to make that absence hurt less.
Now a stranger had threatened him.
I turned toward the restaurant exit.
Jack stood there.
“Where are you going?”
“My son.”
He looked at my face.
Then toward Rocco.
“Get the car.”
I shook my head.
“No. I don't want your people near him.”
Jack stopped.
For the first time, he seemed to understand that his power was not comforting to everyone.
“Then tell me what you need.”
I stared at him.
“My son is two blocks away. I need to get there.”
Jack nodded.
“I'll have Rocco remain outside unless you ask otherwise.”
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
The drive took less than three minutes.
I barely remember it.
When I reached Ruth's apartment, I ran upstairs.
Ruth opened the door.
I pushed past her.
Noah was asleep on the couch.
His broken robot lay beside him.
One tiny silver screw rested on the coffee table.
I dropped to my knees.
Pressed my face against his hair.
And cried.
Noah stirred.
“Mommy?”
“I'm here.”
He blinked sleepily.
“Did you find the piece?”
I laughed through tears.
“Not yet, baby.”
He touched my cheek.
“It's okay.”
Then he whispered:
“Broken things can still work.”
I held him tighter.
Behind me, Ruth stood silently.
When I finally looked up, she asked:
“Lily, what happened?”
I couldn't answer.
Not yet.
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Because downstairs, Jack Moretti was waiting in a black car.
And somewhere in Chicago, a man who had just threatened my child was still alive.
