Chapter 3
Daniel Cross talked before Victor did.
Drivers usually know the route.
Not the reason.
He had been ordered to wait beneath the stage, receive Milo, put him in the coat, and use a service tunnel leading to the north parking area.
Then drive to Blackthorne.
“Who would meet you?”
Daniel looked down.
“Mrs. Marzano.”
I frowned.
“Which one?”
“Your mother.”
The room changed.
Lucia Marzano.
Seventy-one.
Retired from family life for five years.
Living in Palm Beach.
Supposedly.
I looked at Teresa.
My aunt finally stopped pretending.
“She was doing what you refused to do.”
“What?”
“Protect the family.”
I almost laughed.
“By stealing my son?”
“By protecting the heir.”
There.
Finally.
Milo.
Heir.
Not child.
I looked at Victor.
“And you?”
He wiped blood from his mouth.
“Blackthorne was temporary.”
“How long?”
No answer.
“Victor.”
“Six months.”
My hands became cold.
Six months.
A four-year-old disappearing from his father for half a year while everyone pretended the family searched.
“Why?”
Teresa answered.
“Because Milo is becoming soft.”
Of course.
“What does soft mean?”
“He cries.”
Four.
“He sleeps with a night-light.”
Four.
“He runs to Clara when frightened.”
Four.
“He refuses to watch men train.”
Four.
Every fact was the same answer.
My son was four years old.
Teresa looked disgusted.
“You’re raising him like a normal child.”
I stood.
“He is a normal child.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“He is a Marzano.”
There.
The disease.
The surname before the person.
I walked toward her.
“Who authorized Blackthorne?”
“My sister.”
My mother.
“And?”
Three older capos.
Victor.
One retired tutor.
A doctor who once worked for my father.
A complete training circle.
Prepared without me.
I understood.
They were not merely removing Milo.
They were beginning his education before I could stop them.
Blackthorne had been where my father sent boys to become “useful.”
No mothers.
No younger siblings.
No softness.
No exits until improvement.
I remembered visiting once at twelve.
I had forgotten almost everything.
Maybe that was not an accident.
I looked at Teresa.
“You weren’t kidnapping Milo from the family.”
She stared back.
“No.”
May you like
“You were kidnapping him for the family.”
That was worse.
