Chapter 2 - The Girl with the Brown Eyes
The morning sun woke Seattle in shades of pale amber and soft gold.
In the kitchen of a small, cozy craftsman house in Ballard, the scent of toasted cinnamon bread and freshly brewed coffee filled the air.
Claire sat at the kitchen counter, wearing an oversized gray sweater, clutching a mug of black coffee with both hands. She hadn't slept a single minute. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her mind a chaotic storm of memories.
"Mommy! Look!"
A six-year-old girl burst into the kitchen, wearing yellow duck pajamas and holding up a large watercolor drawing.
Mia Callahan was a whirlwind of light. She had wild, dark brown curls that refused to stay in a ponytail, bright olive skin, and large, expressive brown eyes that contained an entire universe of mischief.
Claire looked at her daughter, and the knot of terror in her chest loosened just a fraction.
"What do we have here, sweetie?" Claire asked, forcing a soft smile as she set down her coffee.
"It’s Moonlight!" Mia announced proudly, placing the wet paper onto the counter. "She won the championship today! See? I gave her a golden crown!"
Claire looked at the drawing. A bright black horse with a wild mane stood atop a mountain, surrounded by stars.
"She’s beautiful, Mia," Claire murmured, pulling the little girl into her lap and burying her face in Mia’s soft, shampoo-scented hair. "Just like you."
Mia giggled, wrapping her arms around her mother’s neck. "You smell like the hospital, Mommy. Are you tired?"
"A little bit, baby. It was a very long night."
Mia leaned back, looking at her mother with that uncanny, hyper-perceptive intelligence that always startled Claire.
"Did you save someone today?" Mia asked softly.
Claire’s breath caught in her throat. She looked into her daughter's eyes—Dante’s eyes—and felt a tear slip down her cheek before she could stop it.
"Yes," Claire whispered. "I saved someone."
"Then why are you crying?"
Claire wiped her eye quickly, forcing a warm laugh. "Because I’m just happy to be home with you."
The doorbell rang.
Claire’s entire body went rigid.
It was 8:15 on a Saturday morning. Kate, her neighbor, wasn't due until nine.
Claire set Mia down gently on the floor. "Mia, go into your bedroom and stay there until I call you. Okay?"
Mia frowned, sensing the sudden change in the air. "Is it a bad guy?"
"No, sweetie. Mommy just needs to check who it is. Go on."
Claire watched Mia run down the hallway before she walked slowly toward the front door. She looked through the small glass peep-hole.
Standing on her porch was not a gunman or a mobster.
It was Vance—the scarred bodyguard who had stood outside Dante’s ICU room four hours ago. He was holding a large leather envelope and a bouquet of rare, dark blue orchids.
Claire unlocked the door, opening it three inches, keeping the heavy brass security chain engaged.
"What do you want?" she demanded coldly.
Vance bowed his head respectfully. "Dr. Callahan. Mr. Moretti instructed me to deliver these to you personally."
"I don't want his flowers, and I don't want his money," Claire said, preparing to slam the door.
"It’s not money, ma'am," Vance said quickly, holding up the leather envelope. "It’s a security file. Last night... the men who shot Mr. Moretti were members of the Falcone organization. They know he was brought to Harbor Ridge. They are reviewing hospital staff logs."
Claire felt a cold bucket of ice water dump over her head. "What?"
"Dante realized it the moment he woke up," Vance explained, his voice low and urgent. "You saved his life in Trauma Two. Your name is on the surgical report. If the Falcones find out who you are to him... you are in grave danger. Dante sent me to secure your house."
Before Claire could respond, a tiny voice called out from behind her.
"Mommy? Who is the man with the flowers?"
Vance glanced past Claire’s shoulder.
Through the crack in the door, he saw Mia standing in the hallway, clutching her black horse drawing, her dark brown eyes staring curously at the stranger.
Vance froze.
His jaw dropped slightly. He looked at Mia, then looked at Claire, his scarred face turning deathly pale.
He recognized those eyes instantly. Every man who had worked for the Moretti family for the last decade knew those eyes.
"Jesus Christ," Vance whispered, taking a step back in pure shock. "She's... she's Dante's..."
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Claire unlatched the chain, threw the door open, grabbed Vance by his lapel, and dragged him inside, slamming the door shut behind him.
"You speak one word of this to anyone—including Dante—and I will kill you myself," Claire hissed, her eyes blazing with a terrifying, protective fury. "Do you hear me?!"
