Chapter 2 - The Face of an Echo
Vincent did not blink. The terrifying titan who ran Chicago’s underground empire looked entirely gutted, his towering frame swaying imperceptibly as if the earth had dropped out from beneath his polished Italian leather shoes.
""Leo, please,"" I whispered, my voice sounding thin, fractured, and stranger than I intended. I gripped my son’s small shoulders, trying gently but firmly to pull him back against my chest, wanting to conceal him from the dark fire burning in Vincent's eyes. ""We need to go. We have to finish packing.""
Vincent’s gaze tore away from the boy’s face and locked onto mine. There was a tempest inside those black irises—fury, sorrow, stunned incomprehension, and an overwhelming, desperate hunger that made my skin prickle with goosebumps.
""Claire,"" he choked out. The name sounded like broken glass sliding down his throat. He took a single step forward, reaching out a hand encased in soft black leather.
Instinctively, I flinched, stepping backward and pulling Leo firmly behind my legs.
Vincent’s outstretched hand froze in midair. His fingers curled inward, trembling, before dropping heavily back to his side. Seeing me shrink away from his touch seemed to inflict a physical wound; the muscles along his sharp jaw clenched until a tendon bulged beneath his bronze skin.
""You're alive,"" he rasped, his voice dropping an octave into that low, dangerous register that used to keep an entire city awake at night. ""For six years... I tore apart every port, every terminal, every hospital from here to Zurich. I thought you were dead. I thought my enemies..."" He choked on his words, his gaze falling back down to the little boy peering cautiously from behind my scrub pants.
Leo’s dark eyes were intense, analytical, and completely devoid of fear. He was observing Vincent the way a junior detective observed a suspect.
""Are you the man on the hospital plaques?"" Leo pressed on, ignoring my tight grip on his shoulders. ""The one Mommy says was too busy to heal people who didn't take a number?""
The words hit Vincent like a physical blow. The color drained from his face, leaving him a ghastly shade of gray. His lips parted, but no sound came out. Behind him, two of his armed lieutenants—men who looked like walking brick walls—stood completely frozen, horrified by the spectacle of their ruthless boss being rendered speechless by a six-year-old child.
""Leo, stop talking,"" I commanded softly, my voice firming up with maternal instinct. I couldn't afford to break down. Not here. Not in front of the man who had let me choke on my own breath while he rolled out red carpets for another woman.
I looked Vincent directly in the eye, stripping every trace of warmth, history, and affection from my expression. I gave him the hollow mask of a complete stranger.
""Whatever business you have at this school, Mr. Moretti, it has nothing to do with us,"" I said coldly. ""We were just leaving.""
""Claire, don't you dare walk away from me,"" he demanded, a flicker of his old, domineering authority flashing through the cracks of his shock. ""Don't you dare take another step. That boy... whose son is he?""
I forced a brittle, bitter smile to my lips. It was the first smile I had given him in over six years, and it was laced with poison.
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""Why do you care, Vincent?"" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, yet slicing through the chilly afternoon breeze. ""Did you book an appointment to ask that? Because as you once told me... you're going to have to take a number and wait your turn.""
I grabbed Leo’s hand, spun on my heel, and walked toward the staff exit, refusing to look back even as the ground beneath my feet felt ready to swallow me whole.
