Chapter 2
The hallway was so silent that the rhythmic ticking of Ryan’s gold watch sounded like a hammer striking an anvil. Ryan remained on one knee on the hardwood floor, his perfectly tailored black suit now dusted with plaster and ancient dust from the wall cavity. He stared at the little girl, unable to process the word she had just spoken. Daddy.
“Ryan,” Emily breathed, her voice a tight, controlled whisper. She kept one hand firmly on Lily’s shoulder, pulling the three-year-old a fraction closer to her dark trousers. “Ryan, what is going on? Who is this child?”
“I don’t know,” Ryan replied, his voice barely audible. He slowly lowered his hand, afraid that any sudden movement would send the terrified girl fleeing back into the dark void of the wall. “I swear to you, Emily, I have never seen her before in my life.”
The little girl shivered, her bare feet shifting anxiously on the cold floor. Her fair, rosy skin was smudged with dirt, and her oversized shirt slipped off one frail shoulder. Lily, still holding the older girl's hand, tugged gently.
“She’s cold, Mommy,” Lily said, her innocent voice cutting through the heavy, cinematic tension of the corridor. “Can she have my blanket?”
Emily’s fiercely protective nature warred with her deep compassion. She looked at the child, realizing the girl was no older than six or seven. Despite the mystery and the danger, it was still a child. Emily released a long, shaky breath and stepped forward, her flats making no sound.
“Let’s get her out of this hallway,” Emily said, her tone taking on a commanding, maternal edge. “Bring her to the kitchen. I’ll get a warm towel.”
Ryan nodded, slowly standing up to his full, towering height. He looked down at the girl. “Will you walk with me?” he asked softly.
The mysterious girl looked at Lily, who offered an encouraging, sweet smile, and then back to Ryan. She gave a microscopic nod. Together, the strange procession moved toward the massive, marble-lined kitchen. The bright, cinematic lighting of the room cast harsh illumination on the girl’s disheveled state. She climbed hesitantly onto one of the tall leather barstools, her bare feet dangling far above the floor.
Emily quickly returned with a warm, damp towel and a thick cashmere throw. She draped the throw over the girl's trembling shoulders and gently began to wipe the dirt from her pale cheeks.
“What is your name, sweetheart?” Emily asked, her voice deliberately soft, though her intelligent eyes darted toward Ryan, filled with a hundred unspoken questions.
“Maya,” the girl whispered, staring intently at the plate of sandwiches Lily had proudly placed on the marble island in front of her.
“Go ahead, Maya. You can eat,” Ryan said, leaning against the counter. He watched in stunned silence as the girl grabbed a sandwich and began to eat with desperate, starving urgency.
“How long have you been inside those walls?” Ryan asked, trying to keep his formidable, masculine presence from overwhelming the frightened child.
Maya swallowed hard, looking down at the marble counter. “A long time. Since the snow melted.”
Ryan and Emily exchanged a horrified glance. That was months ago. For months, a child had been living undetected inside the impenetrable fortress of a Mafia boss.
“Maya,” Ryan started, taking a step closer. The overhead lights caught his ruggedly handsome features, highlighting the deep lines of stress forming around his mouth. “Why did you call me Daddy? Who told you to say that?”
Maya stopped eating. She reached into the pocket of her oversized, ragged pants and pulled out a small, crumpled photograph. She slid it across the marble counter toward Ryan.
Ryan picked it up. His broad shoulders went completely rigid. It was a photograph of him, taken perhaps seven or eight years ago. But he wasn't alone in the picture. Standing next to him was a woman with long, dark hair and the exact same fair, rosy skin as the girl sitting in front of him.
“My mommy told me,” Maya whispered, her voice trembling. “She said if the bad men came, I had to hide in the walls. She said my daddy lived in the big house, and he would keep me safe.”
Emily walked around the kitchen island, looking at the photograph over Ryan’s arm. Her delicate earrings swayed as she turned her head. “Ryan… is that Isabella?”
“Isabella is dead,” Ryan said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion, a defense mechanism born from years of syndicate survival. “She died in a fire six years ago. Before I even met you, Emily.”
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“She didn't die,” Maya said, her bottom lip quivering. “The bad men took her. They took her, and she told me to run into the walls and never come out until I found you.”
Ryan gripped the edge of the marble counter so hard his knuckles turned white. The past he had buried was not only alive, but it was sitting in his kitchen, eating a peanut butter sandwich with his three-year-old daughter.
