Chapter 4 – THE DRAWING OF THE BAD LADY

The silence in the car was heavier than the gunfire had been.

Dominic’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The speedometer climbed to ninety on the empty city streets.

“She doesn’t have him,” Mrs. Russo said suddenly. Her voice was firm, but her hands shook as she clutched the silver rosary.

“Mom, you heard her,” Dominic said, his jaw rigid.

“I heard her say she is at St. Jude’s,” Margaret replied. “I didn’t hear Leo.”

I looked at the older woman from the backseat. “What do you mean?”

“Leo never sleeps. He’s terrified of the dark. If a stranger came into his room, he would be screaming. Celia was bluffing to make us panic. She’s there, but she hasn’t found his room yet.”

“Then we have ten minutes,” Dominic said, taking a corner so fast the tires shrieked.

I sat back, my heart pounding. I was a maid. I made beds. Now I was in a bulletproof car with a mafia boss racing to save a secret child.

“Emily,” Dominic said without looking back. “When this is over, I’ll give you enough money to disappear. You and your brother.”

“I don’t want to disappear,” I said before I could stop myself.

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. For a fraction of a second, the cold killer vanished, replaced by a man who looked profoundly alone.

We skidded to a halt two blocks from St. Jude’s Catholic Orphanage. It was a massive, gothic brick building.

“Stay here,” Dominic ordered. He checked his gun.

“I’m coming,” I said. “A man in a suit with a gun will terrify the nuns and the children. A young woman in a cardigan won’t.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Keep behind me.”

We slipped through the side garden gate. The orphanage was deathly quiet. A single black SUV was parked near the playground.

We entered through the kitchen. I remembered my brother doing clinicals here once. “The boy’s dorms are on the third floor,” I whispered.

We crept up the back stairwell. As we reached the third-floor landing, we heard the low, threatening voice of a man.

“Check the closets. She said a six-year-old with dark hair.”

Dominic stepped out of the stairwell. Two loud, suppressed thwips sounded. The two thugs dropped to the floor before they even saw him.

We rushed down the hallway of sleeping children. At the very end, room 312 was cracked open.

Inside, Celia was standing over a small bed, holding a flashlight.

“Come here, you little brat,” she hissed.

A small boy was backed into the corner, clutching a piece of paper to his chest. He looked exactly like the photo. Dark hair, terrified brown eyes.

“Celia,” Dominic said from the doorway.

She froze, dropping the flashlight. She turned, her face twisting into a mask of pure hatred.

“You’re too late, Dom,” she spat. “My men are surrounding the building.”

Dominic raised his gun. “Step away from the boy.”

“Shoot me, and my men will burn this place to the ground,” she smiled.

The little boy, trembling, looked at Dominic. Then, he looked at Celia.

He held out the crumpled piece of paper in his hands.

“You’re the bad lady,” the child whispered.

I looked closely at the paper. It was a child’s crayon drawing. A drawing of a woman with yellow hair pushing a man down a flight of stairs.

Dominic’s eyes locked onto the drawing. His older brother, Leo’s father, had supposedly died falling down the stairs of his own home two years ago.

“Where did you get that, buddy?” Dominic asked, his voice shaking.

“My daddy gave it to me,” Leo whimpered. “Before he went to sleep.”

Celia lunged for the boy.

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