Chapter 3 - THE BOY IN ROOM SEVENTEEN
Dominic didn't immediately explain.
He stood and walked toward the windows.
Outside, the river moved beneath the gray November sky.
"My mother died when I was eleven," he said.
His voice had changed.
It was quieter now, stripped of the command I'd heard in the diner.
"My father controlled an organization that made enemies faster than most people make friends. When he died six months later, his business partners decided the Vale family was finished."
I glanced at Ben.
He looked as stunned as I felt.
Dominic continued.
"An uncle became my guardian. He claimed he wanted to protect me."
"What happened?" I asked.
Dominic turned.
"Someone kept me locked in a room for six days."
The air seemed to leave my lungs.
He didn't describe the abuse in detail.
He didn't have to.
I could see its shadow in the way his shoulders tightened.
"When they finally brought me to a hospital, I was dehydrated, injured, and barely conscious."
He touched the small cut on his cheek.
"Your mother was working the night shift."
I swallowed.
"She helped you?"
"She treated my injuries. She sat beside me when I woke from nightmares. And she refused to let the men accompanying me remove me from the hospital before the authorities had examined what happened."
I remembered Mom's stubbornness.
She once argued with a hospital administrator for forty minutes because a frightened elderly patient needed an interpreter.
She didn't care how expensive someone's suit was.
Dominic gave a faint smile.
"She used to warm the washcloth before cleaning my face."
My eyes filled.
"She did that at home."
His expression softened.
"I know."
He hesitated.
"She told me cold water could make a frightened child feel even more alone."
I looked down at my hands.
Suddenly, the moment in the diner felt different.
The warm towel.
The blood.
The way Dominic froze beneath my fingers.
I hadn't reminded him of a threat.
I'd reminded him of someone who had helped him survive one.
"Why don't you let people touch you now?" Ben asked.
I turned sharply.
"Ben."
Dominic raised a hand.
"It's a fair question."
He sat down.
"After the hospital, several adults who were supposed to protect me continued using physical intimidation to control me. Eventually, I learned to keep people at a distance."
His jaw tightened.
"Distance became a rule."
I looked at him.
"People say you've hurt men for shaking your hand."
Dominic's face hardened.
"Some stories are exaggerated."
"Some?"
He held my gaze.
"Others aren't."
The admission chilled me.
For a moment, I remembered what he was.
Not simply a frightened boy from the past.
A powerful criminal boss whose choices had harmed people.
Dominic looked toward the window.
"I've done things I regret, Lily. I'm not asking you to excuse them."
"Then what are you asking?"
He took a breath.
"Whether your mother ever told you about a boy named Nico."
My heart skipped.
"Nico?"
He nodded.
"That was what she called me."
I stared.
I had heard that name.
Not often.
But sometimes Mom mentioned a little boy she'd cared for in New York.
She never told us his surname.
"She said you liked drawing boats," I whispered.
Dominic's expression changed.
He stepped toward me.
"What?"
I swallowed.
"Mom said there was a boy who drew the same boat over and over because he wanted to escape across the ocean."
His eyes filled.
"She remembered that?"
"Yes."
For several seconds, Dominic couldn't speak.
Then he opened the bottom drawer of his desk.
He removed a small, yellowed sheet of paper.
On it was a child's drawing.
A blue boat.
A crooked sun.
And a little boy standing on the deck.
At the bottom were two words.
For Grace.
My mother.
Dominic placed the drawing on the desk.
"She kept me alive long enough for someone to believe me."
I touched the edge of the paper.
"What happened to the people who hurt you?"
His expression darkened.
"My uncle disappeared."
Ben shifted uneasily.
"And the others?"
Dominic looked at him.
"Some were arrested. Some weren't."
I thought about Mom.
She'd never spoken of organized crime.
Never mentioned testifying against powerful men.
But she had always insisted that people deserved protection even when it was inconvenient.
"Why didn't she tell us?" I whispered.
Dominic studied me.
"Because your mother understood how dangerous my family was."
I stood to leave an hour later.
Dominic walked us to the office door.
"Lily."
I turned.
"Yes?"
"Your mother's funeral was five years ago, correct?"
I nodded.
He lowered his eyes.
"I wanted to attend."
My throat tightened.
"Why didn't you?"
"Because by then, people associated with me had become a danger to anyone they believed mattered to me."
I looked at him.
"Then perhaps you should change the people around you."
Marcus shifted.
Dominic stared.
Nobody spoke.
Then his mouth curved slightly.
"Your mother said something similar."
I smiled sadly.
"She was usually right."
That evening, Ben and I returned home to find a small package outside our apartment.
There was no return address.
Inside was a framed photograph.
Mom standing beside a hospital bed.
A dark-haired boy sat against the pillows.
He held a drawing of a boat.
On the back, in Mom's handwriting, were the words:
Dominic V. Age twelve. Safe tonight.
I began crying.
Ben stood beside me.
Then he noticed something tucked behind the photograph.
A folded sheet of paper.
He opened it.
His face changed.
"Lily."
I wiped my eyes.
"What?"
He handed it to me.
It was a letter addressed to my mother.
The signature at the bottom belonged to someone named Arthur Vale.
May you like
And the final sentence read:
If you ever tell that boy the truth about his parents, your own children will pay the price.
