Chapter 2
"You came here to work for eggs and milk, Mia?" he asked quietly.
"I can sweep," she repeated, her eyes darting past his shoulder toward the glass doors of the lobby café, where the smell of toasted brioche and espresso was drifting through the vents. "I'm good at sweeping. I don't break dishes. And I have ninety-five cents in my pocket. If the milk costs more, I can work an extra hour."
Dante stood up slowly.
He didn't brush the dirty water from the knee of his trousers. He turned to Marco.
Marco had already tucked his phone away. In the twelve years Marco had served as Dante’s right hand, he had seen Dante order executions, orchestrate corporate takeovers that bankrupted senators, and stare down rival syndicate heads without blinking. But he had never seen Dante’s face look the way it did in that instant. It was pale, drawn, and entirely emptied of patience.
"Call Dr. Rossi," Dante commanded. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the seventy-foot cavern of the atrium like a gunshot. "Have him at my penthouse in twenty minutes with pediatric electrolytes, sterile infant formula, and whatever equipment is necessary to evaluate acute infant malnutrition. If he isn't there in twenty minutes, tell him he can find another city to practice medicine in."
"Understood," Marco said, dialing before he had finished the word.
Dante turned to the security guard who had reached for the girl earlier. The guard flinched, pulling his hands behind his back.
"Take my coat," Dante said, shrugging out of the heavy, dry charcoal cashmere.
The guard took it with two trembling hands as if it were unexploded ordnance.
Dante turned back to Mia. He reached out with both hands, open, palms upward.
"Mia," he said. "Give me your sister."
For the first time, a flicker of raw panic crossed the seven-year-old’s face. Her arms clamped down tight against the blanket. She took half a step backward, her soaked sneakers squeaking against the wet stone.
"No," she whispered. "I have to take care of her."
"I know you do," Dante said softly, not lowering his hands. "You've done an extraordinary job. You brought her through the rain. You brought her to the only building in this city where she will never be hungry again. But your arms are tired, Mia. Look at your fingers. They're blue."
She looked down at her hands. They were trembling violently from cold and the sheer physical effort of carrying an eleven-pound weight through a three-mile downpour.