The sound was not loud. It was not the dramatic, attention-seeking wail of a child who had scraped a knee in a playground.

Ten minutes later, Northwestern Memorial Hospital’s VIP trauma center was in a state of frantic activity.

Hannah Rodriguez was rushed into the intensive care unit on a gurney, surrounded by four of Chicago’s top medical specialists. Charles had personally ordered his private medical team to take complete charge of her care, sparing zero expense.

Outside the ICU doors, in a private, quiet waiting room, sat Maya.

She sat on a large leather sofa, her small sneakers dangling inches above the floor. She held a cup of warm hot chocolate that a nurse had brought her, but she hadn't taken a single sip. Her dark eyes were fixed entirely on the closed glass doors of the ICU.

The door opened softly, and Charles stepped into the room.

Beside him walked Leo.

The little boy had been brought directly from the estate by Charles’s personal driver. He wore a clean sweater, but his small face was still pale and anxious.

The moment Leo saw Maya sitting on the sofa, his amber eyes lit up with a brilliant, blinding light.

He broke away from his father’s hand, running across the room as fast as his small legs could carry him, and threw his arms around Maya’s neck, burying his face in her lavender jacket.

Maya dropped her paper cup onto the table and wrapped her arms tightly around Leo, hugging him back with all her strength.

Charles stood in the doorway, watching the two children hold each other.

For two years, Charles had watched his son withdraw into dark, violent silence. He had spent millions of dollars on doctors, therapists, and specialists, yet none of them had ever been able to break through the wall of Leo’s trauma.

And here was a six-year-old girl from 18th Street, holding his son as if they had known each other for a thousand lifetimes.

Leo pulled back from Maya, his small hands moving rapidly.

You safe? Leo signed, his face full of intense worry. Stepmother hurt you?

Maya smiled through her tears, shaking her head. I safe. Your dad bad lady away.

Leo turned his head and looked at his father.

Charles walked over slowly, dropping to both knees on the carpet in front of the two children. He brought his hands up, his fingers moving with extreme gentleness, signing to his son:

Leo... I am sorry. I did not see. I did not know. Please... forgive Daddy.

Leo stared at his father’s hands. For two years, Leo had associated his home with terror, silence, and the cruel punishments of his stepmother whenever his father wasn't looking.

Slowly, Leo reached out his small hand and touched the silver pocket watch that Charles was holding out toward him.