Chapter 2 - The House of Broken Glass
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Constantine’s hand closed around the silver pin so tightly that the metal edges dug into his palm. A single drop of blood welled between his fingers, dripping onto the pristine hardwood floor of the booth.
“Elena wasn't killed by a drunk driver,” Constantine breathed, the realization striking him like a physical blow. “She was murdered. And Mila saw it.”
“She was three years old when it happened,” Josie said, her heart aching for the silent child sitting between them. “She blocked it out. But coming here... seeing you, seeing the pin... it’s coming back.”
Constantine looked at Tate, who was now weeping openly on the floor.
“Who gave you the burner phone?” Constantine asked. His voice was no longer loud; it was terrifyingly quiet, the tone of a man who had already decided on a execution.
“I don't know!” Tate wailed. “I swear! The calls were always scrambled! But the man... he had a raspy voice. He smelled like expensive cigars and mint! Like the ones from the private club on Beacon Hill!”
Constantine’s eyes narrowed. He stood up, turning to his head of security, a towering man named Viktor.
“Take Tate to the basement at the docks,” Constantine ordered coldly. “Keep him alive until he remembers every syllable spoken over that phone.”
“No!” Tate screamed as two guards dragged him backward out the front door into the pouring rain. “Mr. Voss, please! I have a family! I was just following orders!”
The heavy oak doors of Callahan’s Pub slammed shut, cutting off Tate’s screams.
Phil Callahan stood behind the bar, his hands trembling as he wiped down the same spot on the counter over and over again. “Constantine... please. We don't want any trouble here.”
Constantine pulled a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and set it gently on the bar top. “For the disruption, Phil. And for keeping my daughter fed when my own men failed her.”
He turned back to Josie. Mila was holding onto Josie’s coat like a lifeline, her face buried in Josie’s side.
“Miss Morrow,” Constantine said, his eyes scanning her exhausted face. “My daughter trusts you. In eight weeks, you have gotten more words out of her than three child psychologists and four private speech therapists.”
“She was hungry,” Josie said simply. “And she was lonely. It doesn't take a degree to understand that.”
“Perhaps not,” Constantine agreed softly. “Which is why you are coming with us.”
Josie pulled back slightly, her arm tightening around Mila. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I have a shift at the diner in three hours, and I have to visit my brother at Mass General at eight in the morning.”
Constantine took a step closer. He didn't look threatening now; he looked like a desperate father standing on the edge of a cliff.
“Your brother’s medical bills at Mass General total one hundred and forty thousand dollars,” Constantine said quietly. “As of ten minutes ago, those bills have been paid in full. A private room on the VIP oncology floor has been reserved for him, and Dr. Aris Thorne—the top specialist in pediatric leukemia from Johns Hopkins—is currently on a private jet to Boston.”
Josie stared at him, her breath hitching. “You... you paid off Leo’s debt?”
“It is not a bribe,” Constantine said, his eyes unwavering. “It is a retainer. I am offering you a position as Mila’s personal guardian and companion. You will live at the estate. You will be paid ten thousand dollars a week. And your brother will receive the best medical care money can buy on this continent.”
Josie looked down at Mila. The little girl was looking up at her with wide, pleading blue eyes, her tiny hand clutching Josie’s thumb.
May you like
“Why me?” Josie whispered. “You have millions. You could hire anyone.”
“Because,” Constantine said, his voice dropping into a tender, broken tone, “she chose you. And I cannot survive losing her twice.”
