Chapter 3 - The Broken Toy
Dinner was served in the formal dining room, a cavernous space of dark mahogany, silver candelabras, and oil paintings of Kincaid ancestors who had built their fortune on the blood of the Chicago stockyards.
Noah sat between Claire and Dominic, his small chair raised with two leather cushions. He had not touched his food—a simple plate of grilled chicken and peas cut into tiny pieces. He kept his head down, his fingers tightly wrapped around his one-eyed stuffed fox, which sat in his lap like a shield.
Julian sat across from them, cutting his medium-rare steak with the aggressive, precise movements of a man who enjoyed the sight of blood on a white plate.
"The Gary docks are running perfectly, Dom," Julian said, taking a sip of his red wine. "We cleared three container ships from Yokohama this week. No union trouble. No customs delays. The commissioner is... well, let’s just say he’s very happy with his retirement fund."
"Good," Dominic said. He had barely touched his own plate. He sat with his hands clasped before him, his gaze fixed on his brother’s face. "And the logistics? The trucking routes Miranda used to manage?"
At the mention of Miranda’s name, the room seemed to lose several degrees of heat.
Julian’s knife paused against the silver plate with a sharp, scraping sound. He looked up, his pale blue eyes narrowing slightly before his easy smile returned.
"The same as always, Dom. We kept her routes. No need to change a system that worked. It was a tragedy, of course. Still hard to believe it’s been two years."
He turned his gaze to Noah.
"Hey there, buddy," Julian said, leaning across the table. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, metallic object. He set it on the mahogany wood and slid it toward the boy. "I brought you something. I remembered how much you liked your mother’s music box. This one isn't glass, so you can't break it."
It was a small, silver-plated music box, shaped like a carousel.
Noah did not reach for it. He shrank back into his seat, his shoulder pressing hard against Claire’s arm.
"Come on, Noah," Julian urged, his voice dropping to a soft, cajoling tone that made Claire’s skin crawl. It was the voice of a wolf pretending to be a sheep. "Take it. Wind it up. Let’s hear the song."
"He doesn't want it, Julian," Claire said, her voice cutting through the quiet room with the force of a small explosion.
Julian’s eyes snapped to her, his smile vanishing instantly. "I was speaking to my nephew, Miss Bennett. Not the help."
"I am his nanny," Claire said, her hand resting over Noah's small, trembling fingers. "And I know when he is uncomfortable. Please take the toy back."
"Dominic," Julian said, his voice rising in irritation as he looked at his brother. "Are you really going to let this girl run your house? She’s a servant. She should be in the kitchen, not telling me what I can give to my own family."
Dominic did not move. He looked at the silver carousel sitting on the table, then at his brother.
"Miss Bennett is responsible for Noah’s well-being," Dominic said, his voice dead and cold. "If she says he does not want the toy, he does not want the toy."
Julian let out a short, bitter laugh. He stood up, throwing his linen napkin onto his plate.
"You’ve gone soft, Dom. Ever since Miranda died, you’ve been living in this big, empty house like a ghost. Letting some schoolteacher tell you how to raise your kid. If father were alive—"
"Father is dead, Julian," Dominic said, his voice rising just enough to make the crystal glasses on the sideboard ring. He stood up, his massive frame towering over his brother. "And I am the head of this family. Remember that before you speak to me about how I run my house."
Julian stared at his brother for a long, silent moment. The anger in his face was a raw, ugly thing, but beneath it, Claire saw something else.
Fear.
"I’m going to the library," Julian said, his voice tight as he turned away. "I need a real drink. Not this table wine."
He strode out of the dining room, his boots slamming against the marble floor.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Noah let out a ragged, trembling sob. He turned his face into Claire’s side, his small shoulders shaking as he began to cry without sound.
Dominic walked around the table and knelt beside them. He did not look at Claire; he looked only at his son.
"Noah," Dominic said, his voice softer than Claire had ever heard it. He reached out, his large, scarred hand hovering over the boy’s dark curls before gently resting there. "He’s not going to hurt you. I promise."
May you like
Noah looked up, his tear-streaked face pale. He looked at his father, then at Claire, and then, slowly, he raised his small hand and pointed toward the door his uncle had just exited.
He did not speak. But the terror in his eyes spoke louder than any words.
