Chapter 3 - A SINGLE WORD IN THE DARK
The air in the rear alcove felt as thick as glass.
Dante sat motionless, his large hands resting flat on the mahogany table, ready to push the waitress away if she made a single erratic movement. His three bodyguards at the front bar had subtly adjusted their posture, their eyes reflecting in the wall mirrors as they watched the exchange.
Maya remained crouched beside the booth. She didn't pull away, nor did she look intimidated by the silence. She looked at the blank paper on the table, then at the bright red crayon.
"Red is a strong color," Maya murmured softly, her voice carrying a natural, soothing warmth that felt entirely foreign in Dante Russo's cold, guarded world. "It’s good for drawing fire trucks. Or strawberries."
Sophia’s long brown curls shifted slightly. Her small head turned a fraction of an inch toward Maya.
Maya offered her a tiny, genuine smile—not the professional smile she gave to paying customers, but the quiet, comforting smile of an older sister.
"My favorite was always purple," Maya added softly, leaning her chin closer to her folded hands on the table edge. "When I was your age, I drew purple trees, purple cats, and purple castles. My teacher told me trees weren't purple, but I didn't care. Purple felt braver."
Sophia’s dark eyes locked onto Maya’s face.
For three long days, every adult who had approached Sophia had treated her like a fragile glass doll—whispering in hushed, pitying tones, asking her where her mother was, or demanding she eat her food. Maya was the first person who simply spoke to her like a normal human being.
Silence stretched across the table. One beat. Two beats. Three.
Dante held his breath, his gray eyes darting between the waitress and his silent daughter.
Slowly, hesitatingly, Sophia’s tiny, pale fingers reached across the white tablecloth. Her small hand hovered over the red crayon for a second before closing tightly around the wax cylinder. She pulled it closer to her blue velvet dress.
Maya didn't move an inch, keeping her smile steady and gentle.
Sophia’s chest heaved with a small, trembling breath. Her tiny lips parted, dry and pale.
"Purple," a tiny, raspy voice whispered into the quiet air.
May you like
It was barely louder than the hum of the refrigerator behind the bar. It was a soft, fragile sound, scratchy from three days of total disuse.
Maya froze.
