Chapter 2 - THE CRY OF A CHILD
The words were small, barely carrying over the deafening shrieks of the baby and the continuous, low thrum of the jet engines outside the double-paned glass. But they possessed a peculiar clarity that made the bodyguard pause, his thick finger hovering in mid-air.
Vincent opened his eyes. His gaze shifted slowly from his son’s red, tear-streaked face to the aisle. He looked past the broad shoulder of his security chief, eyeing the small girl standing beneath the shadow of his men.
He took in everything in a fraction of a second: her neat, modest clothing, the lack of fear in her expression, the posture of a guardian rather than a curious child, and the quiet, desperate worry swimming behind her observant eyes.
"Hold on, Marco," Vincent commanded, his gravelly voice cutting through the infant's cries.
Marco, the tall bodyguard, froze immediately. He didn't drop his arm entirely, but he cleared a narrow line of sight between Leah and his boss.
Vincent leaned forward, his heavy forearms resting on his knees as he cradled Luca against his broad chest. The steel watch on his wrist caught the harsh sunlight, gleaming brightly against his dark skin and tattoos. He looked Leah up and down with cold, calculating scrutiny.
"You know babies?" Vincent asked, his tone dry, sharp, and laced with skepticism.
"I know that cry," Leah replied softly. She took a tiny half-step forward, not asking for permission, but testing the boundary Marco had set. "That's not an hungry cry. It's not a tired cry, either. It’s the cry when something is hurting you and you can’t tell anyone where it is."
Vincent’s eyes narrowed slightly. The skepticism in his expression flickered, replaced by a razor-thin beam of interest. He had spent three hours watching doctors, attendants, and his own highly trained staff offer useless advice, bottle after bottle, blanket after blanket. None of them had spoken with the absolute certainty this ten-year-old girl possessed.
Vincent raised one heavy, tattooed hand, flicking two fingers toward himself.
"Let her through," Vincent ordered.
Marco hesitated for a single beat—an extraordinary reaction for a man trained to follow Vincent’s word as law—before stepping aside. He remained close behind Leah, his heavy hand hovering inches from her shoulder as she walked down the aisle.
Leah walked with slow, deliberate steps. She didn't hurry. She didn't display any of the wide-eyed awe typical of a child stepping into a multi-million-dollar luxury cabin. Her long light-brown hair swayed gently against her gray cardigan as she approached Vincent’s seat.
She stopped two feet away from the crime boss.
Vincent towered over her even while seated, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow across the cream carpet. The ink on his neck caught the light—a dark, creeping pattern that looked like thorns. Up close, Leah could smell the faint scent of expensive cedarwood cologne, leather, and the sharp, metallic tang of cold sweat born from pure exhaustion.
She didn't look at Vincent's face, nor did she stare at the dark tattoos covering his hands. She kept her eyes focused entirely on Baby Luca.
The infant was writhing now, his small fists balled tight, his chest heaving as his cries turned into breathless, terrifying gasps.
"Can I look?" Leah asked quiet, holding her hands in front of her cardigan.
Vincent watched her face closely, searching for any sign of deception, hesitation, or fear. He found none. Slowly, he nodded once.
Leah leaned in. She didn't rush to touch the child. She moved with an incredible, methodical caution, analyzing the baby’s posture, the way his body arched, and the specific angle at which he was trying to twist away from his own swaddling.
She noticed his left arm was pinned tight against his ribs, not by the cream blanket, but by his own desperate effort to keep that side of his torso still.
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"He's not sick," Leah murmured, her voice steady against the roar of the engines. "He's trying to get away from something."
Leah reached out with her right hand. Her fingers were small, clean, and delicate. Gently—so gently that Vincent’s hand instinctively twitched to shield his son—she reached toward the folds of the thick cream blanket tucked near Luca’s lower ribs.
