Chapter 8 - THE REUNION IN THE SHADOWS
The apartment was small, immaculate, and heartbreakingly simple.
A small kitchen area with worn linoleum floors sat to the left, where a pot of vegetable broth bubbled softly on a gas stove. A small wooden dining table held a stack of children's drawing books and a box of crayons. To the right, near a window overlooking the rainy alleyway, sat a small twin bed.
Lying on the bed, propped up against two thin pillows, was Elena Russo.
She was thirty-two, but illness had stripped her body of its youth. She was pale, slender to the point of fragility, her brown hair tied back in a loose braid. Yet her dark eyes remained wide, clear, and strikingly beautiful.
Standing right beside the bed, holding a glass of fresh water, was six-year-old Sophie, wearing her yellow summer dress.
When the heavy front door snapped open and Vincent's towering, broad-shouldered frame filled the doorway, Sophie didn't scream. She didn't drop the glass of water.
She turned her head slowly, her wide gray-green eyes locking onto Vincent's face.
She recognized him instantly.
"The mister from the sidewalk..." Sophie whispered softly, her brows drawing together in surprise.
On the bed, Elena’s head snapped toward the doorway.
The moment her dark eyes met Vincent's pale gray-green gaze, every drop of remaining color drained from her cheeks. Her lips parted in absolute, catastrophic shock. She tried to sit up, her thin hand clutching the bedsheet against her chest, her breathing turning fast and shallow.
"Vincent...?" Elena gasped, her voice barely more than a wind through dry leaves. "How... how did you find me...?"
Vincent didn't answer. He couldn't speak.
The feared crime boss of New York stepped into the tiny, faded apartment. He closed the heavy wooden door behind him, locking out the rain, the hallway, and the rest of the world.
He didn't look at the cracked walls or the cheap furniture. He walked straight across the small room, his broad frame casting a long shadow, stopping two feet from the edge of the bed.
He looked down at Elena—at the woman he had loved, the woman he had mourned, the woman who had spent six years suffering in the dark to protect his daughter.
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Then he looked down at Sophie, who was standing beside her mother's bed, looking up at his dark tailored suit, his neck tattoos, and his pale eyes with quiet, fearless curiosity.
Vincent slowly dropped to both knees directly on the worn linoleum floor.
