Chapter 2 - The Table in the Cold Kitchen
My hands shook so violently I could barely slide the deadbolt back.
When the heavy lock clicked open, the door swung slowly inward, letting in a rush of sub-zero air—and the imposing presence of Lorenzo Moretti.
Up close, he was even larger than he looked from the window. The scent of expensive cedarwood, leather, and fresh rain came in with him. His face was carved from sharp angles, a faint scar running along his left jawline, but his grey eyes—the color of a winter sky—were soft as he looked down at me.
He didn't barge in. He stood on the threshold, his gaze sweeping over my oversized, threadbare sweater, my bare feet, and the tiny boy crying against my shoulder.
Then his eyes shifted over my head, taking in the cold living room, the empty fireplace, and the plastic sheets taped over the window cracks to keep the draft out.
Something dangerous flashed deep within his eyes for a fraction of a second—a dark, silent rage aimed not at us, but at the world that had allowed two children to live like this.
Lorenzo turned slightly and gestured to one of his men standing on the porch.
“Bring everything in,” he ordered quietly.
The large man, whom Lorenzo referred to as Marco, immediately stepped forward carrying four heavy, insulated canvas bags and two large boxes.
Lorenzo stepped inside, closing the heavy door behind him, shutting out the biting wind. He unbuttoned his dark wool coat, folded it carefully over his arm, and knelt down on the cold wooden floor so he was at eye level with me.
“You’re shivering,” he noted softly, his voice smooth and steady.
He reached out, his large, calloused hand moving slowly so as not to startle me, and gently touched Noah’s small, damp cheek. Noah paused his crying, blinking his tear-filled blue eyes at the towering stranger.
“Is this Noah?” Lorenzo asked gently.
I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes, sir.”
“You did a good job protecting him, Emily,” Lorenzo said, looking straight into my eyes with an earnestness that made my chest tighten. “You don't need to call me sir. Just Lorenzo.”
Marco set the bags down on our small kitchen table, which usually held nothing but unpaid utility notices and junk mail.
When Lorenzo stood up and walked into the kitchen, he opened the first insulated bag.
Inside were four glass bottles of fresh, organic whole milk—still cold, condensation running down the glass. Beside them were infant formula containers, soft warm blankets, fresh bakery bread, cheeses, roasted chicken, fruits, and several thermos containers filled with hot soup.
I stared at the food as if it were a hallucination. My stomach gave an embarrassing, loud growl.
Lorenzo didn't laugh. He simply picked up one of the milk bottles, unscrewed the cap, and poured it into a clean infant bottle Marco had brought in a sterile box.
“Here,” Lorenzo said, handing the prepared bottle to me. “Feed your brother.”
I took the bottle, my fingers brushing against his warm skin, and sat down at the table. Noah grabbed the bottle with both of his tiny hands, drinking hungrily, his soft snuffles fading into contented gasps.
As Noah fed, Lorenzo walked over to our ancient refrigerator, pulled the door open, and looked inside.
The bare shelves and empty light socket confirmed everything my text had implied.
Lorenzo closed the door slowly. He leaned his back against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at me as I sat feeding Noah.
“Where is your mother, Emily?” he asked, his tone measured and quiet.
“She’s working,” I whispered, keeping my eyes on Noah. “She cleans houses in Dearborn. She leaves early and comes home late.”
“Does she know there’s no food in this house?”
“She tries,” I said fiercely, looking up at him with sudden defensiveness. “She works so hard! Her feet bleed sometimes when she comes home! It’s just... the landlord raised the rent, and the heating bill was too high this month.”
Lorenzo looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
“I believe you,” he said softly. “Your mother is a good woman. But a twelve-year-old girl shouldn't have to text strangers for twenty dollars to keep her brother alive.”
Before I could answer, the front door rattled open.
My mother walked in, carrying a plastic shopping bag containing three bruised apples and a single small can of soup. Her face was pale with fatigue, her dark hair pulled back in a loose, exhausted knot.
She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the two massive men in suits standing near her hallway, and Lorenzo Moretti standing in her kitchen next to her children.
May you like
The plastic bag dropped from her trembling fingers, the apples rolling across the floorboards.
“Who... who are you?” she gasped, her voice laced with terror. “What are you doing in my house?!”
