Chapter 2 - The House on 138th Street
Ten minutes later, a sleek black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the curb in front of Le Petit Palais.
William Parker did not wait for his driver to open the door. He held the umbrella himself, shielding Emma and Noah as they stepped out of the warm restaurant. In Emma’s small hands was a heavy thermal bag containing three roasted chickens, four containers of soup, fresh fruit, milk, and three boxes of infant formula that William’s assistant had rushed to buy from a high-end pharmacy two blocks away.
"Get in," William said, opening the door to the leather-lined interior of the SUV.
Emma pulled back, her eyes wide with caution. "Where are we going?"
"To your house, Emma," William said, looking down at her. "We're going to give your grandmother her lunch, and then my doctor is going to look at her heart."
"You have a doctor?"
"I have the best cardiologist in New York on retainer," William replied quietly. "And right now, he's driving to your apartment."
Emma looked at the warm, dry interior of the car. She looked at the giant man standing beside her in the rain, holding an umbrella over her head while his own shoulder got completely soaked. For the first time in four days, the crushing weight in her chest loosened just a fraction. She climbed inside.
The drive from the Upper East Side to Harlem took twenty-two minutes.
As the vehicle moved north, the scenery transformed rapidly. The polished doormen, flower boxes, and pristine limestone facades vanished, replaced by cracked pavement, boarded-up storefronts, rusted fire escapes, and groups of men standing under scaffolding to escape the drizzling rain.
The SUV stopped in front of a four-story brick tenement building on 138th Street. The front steps were chipped, and the heavy metal front door was propped open with a broken brick.
"Four B," Emma whispered, stepping out of the car with Noah pressed tight against her chest.
William looked up at the building. His corporate security detail—a former Delta Force operator named Marcus who drove the SUV—stepped out immediately, his sharp eyes scanning the street.
"Boss," Marcus said quietly, touching his earbud. "This block isn't secure. Let me go up first."
"No," William said. "She walks in first. We follow."
They climbed four flights of dark, narrow stairs that smelled of old cabbage, damp plaster, and bleach. On the third floor, a door stood slightly ajar, and a woman with graying hair peered out through a safety chain. It was Mrs. Wilson—the neighbor who had abandoned Noah four months earlier.
When Mrs. Wilson saw Emma climbing the stairs accompanied by a tall man in a three-thousand-dollar suit and a massive security guard, her eyes widened in shock. She instantly slammed her door shut and locked three deadbolts from the inside.
William noticed the interaction, his eyes narrowing, but he didn't stop.
They reached Apartment 4B. The wooden door was warped, its brass lock loose in the frame. Emma pulled a brass key on a shoe string from her pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.
"Grandma?" Emma called out softly, stepping into the dark hallway. "Grandma, I'm home. I brought food."
There was no answer.
William stepped into the apartment, his height making the low-ceilinged room feel even smaller. His eyes took in the scene in a single second: the worn rug, the empty formula cans stacked neatly in the corner to be recycled, the dresser drawer lined with folded towels where Noah slept, and the utter, chilling lack of heat.
"In here," Emma whispered, rushing toward the small bedroom at the back.
William followed her.
On a narrow bed beneath two faded quilts lay Martha Reynolds. Her skin was a translucent grey. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open, her chest barely moving as her shallow breaths rattled in her throat. On the small nightstand beside her sat an empty plastic pill bottle labeled Digoxin - 0.25mg.
"Grandma!" Emma cried out, dropping the thermal bag onto the floor and kneeling by the bed. She took Martha’s cold hand in her small ones. "Grandma, wake up! Look, I got the soup! A nice man helped us!"
Martha didn't move. Her fingers were ice cold.
William immediately stepped forward, pushing his suit jacket back as he knelt beside the bed. He pressed two fingers against Martha’s neck. Her pulse was threadbare—a irregular, fluttering rhythm that was fading fast.
"Marcus!" William shouted over his shoulder. "Where is Dr. Vance?!"
"He's three minutes out, sir!" Marcus called from the hallway. "I'll run down and bring him up!"
"Tell him to bring a portable crash kit and liquid digitalis!" William ordered sharply, his voice commanding and precise.
Emma stared at William, her eyes filled with absolute terror. "Is she... is she dead?"
"No," William said, looking directly into Emma’s blue eyes, taking her small hand and squeezing it tightly. "She is not dead, Emma. I promise you, she is not dying today. Look at me. Look at my eyes."
May you like
Emma looked at him, tears finally breaking free and spilling down her pale cheeks.
"I promised you when we left the restaurant that we were going to fix this," William said, his voice as solid as iron. "I don't break my promises."
