Chapter 8 - Footsteps in the South Wing
The south wing of the Thorne manor was the architectural inverse of the executive north. Here, the ceilings dropped to a modest nine feet, the floors transitioned from expensive travertine to polished pine runners, and the air was warm with the lingering scent of laundry detergent, floor wax, and dry cedar shavings. It was where the housekeepers, the cooks, the drivers, and their families lived—a quiet, self-contained community that existed beneath the shadow of Roman’s violence, protected by his name yet terrified of his presence.
At twelve-twenty AM, the hallway was deserted. A single incandescent nightlight cast long, amber shadows down the corridor, illuminating the closed doors of the staff bedrooms.
Roman moved like a phantom. His leather dress shoes made no sound against the braided wool runners. Despite his towering height and the heavy bulk of his shoulders, he moved with the silence of a predator stalking through its own territory.
He stopped outside Room 14.
Above the brass doorknob was a small, hand-painted wooden sign featuring a pair of yellow ducklings—a crude, cheerful decoration the junior maids had hung for the little girl. Below the door, a faint sliver of warm, buttery light spilled onto the floorboards.
She was still awake.
Roman paused on the runner, his hand resting on the frame. His pulse, usually so steady during armed confrontations, was hammering a frantic, double-time rhythm against his ribs. For fifteen years, he had kicked open doors in warehouses, interrogated traitors in basements, and looked into the eyes of dying men without a flicker of hesitation.
Yet standing outside the bedroom of a three-year-old child, holding a one-eared stuffed rabbit, the feared Don of Chicago felt his hand trembling against the timber.
He took a slow, deep breath, steadying his breathing. With two fingers, he turned the brass handle and eased the door open by three inches.
The hinges gave a soft, oiled whisper.
The room was small, cozy, and sparsely furnished: a single pine dresser, a low rocking chair draped with a patchwork quilt, and a narrow toddler bed pushed against the far wall beneath a window looking out toward the carriage house. The curtains were drawn, but a small ceramic nightlight shaped like an acorn glowed on the nightstand, bathing the room in soft, amber tranquility.
Sofie was sitting upright in the center of the bed.
She was still wearing her blue floral dress, though her worn sneakers had been kicked off and lined up neatly beside the bedpost. Her small knees were pulled up to her chest, her chin resting on her floral skirt, her brown hair falling in loose, untamed wisps around her ears.
She did not startle when the door opened. She did not gasp or cower beneath the blankets.
She slowly turned her head toward the doorway, her large brown eyes meeting Roman’s gaze through the gap in the timber with that same unblinking, ancient stillness she had shown in his office. It was as if she had been sitting in the dark, listening to the rain, waiting for the heavy footsteps that she knew would eventually come.
Roman pushed the door open the rest of the way, his broad frame filling the narrow entrance.
He did not loom over her. With slow, deliberate movements, he stepped across the pine floorboards, pulled the low wooden rocking chair toward the edge of the mattress, and sat down. The chair groaned softly beneath his weight, his long legs folded awkwardly in the cramped space, the Colt Python pressing against his ribs.
He laid the gray flannel rabbit gently upon the patchwork quilt beside her small, socked feet.
Sofie looked down at the toy. A tiny, fragile smile touched the corner of her lips, her fingers immediately reaching out to stroke the frayed stump where the left ear used to be.
“You found Barnaby,” she whispered, her voice a soft, melodic breath in the quiet room.
Roman leaned his forearms onto his knees, bringing his face down to her eye level. The green banker’s lamp from his office was gone, replaced by the warm, domestic glow of the acorn light, illuminating the deep lines of exhaustion carved around his eyes and the gray streaking his dark beard.
May you like
“Barnaby,” Roman murmured, testing the name on his tongue. He paused, taking a slow, measured breath before he asked the question that had been burning through his blood for an hour.
“Sofie… who gave you this rabbit?”
