Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Daycare
"She was a good girl tonight, Clara," Mrs. Gable said, handing over the small pink backpack that had a frayed strap mended with green duct tape. "A bit stubborn about the bear during dinner, but she ate her carrots."
"Thank you, Mrs. Gable," Clara said, forcing a bright, maternal smile that felt like cardboard on her face. "I'm sorry I'm right at the wire tonight. The kitchen had a late rush."
"Oh, don't you worry about it. You work harder than any three people I know." The older woman reached behind the counter and lifted Maya, who was half-asleep, her head resting heavily against Mrs. Gable’s shoulder, her small thumb tucked firmly into the corner of her mouth.
Clara took her daughter into her arms, the familiar, solid weight of the four-year-old instantly grounding her. Maya grunted softly, her small arms wrapping around Clara’s neck by reflex, her breath warm and sweet against Clara’s throat.
"Mama..." Maya mumbled, her eyes fluttering open for a fraction of a second before closing again. "Did you bring the good thing?"
"I have it in my bag, baby," Clara whispered, kissing the soft temple where the dark, wild curls met the skin. "We’ll have it at home. Let’s get upstairs."
She carried Maya through the secure inner door that led directly to the building's residential stairwell. The steps were concrete, smelling of old pine cleaner and cooking spices from the apartments above. By the time she reached the third floor, her breath was short and her arms were aching, but she didn't slow down.
She unlocked the door to Apartment 3B, stepped inside, and kicked the door shut with her heel, throwing the double deadbolts into place with a series of loud, metallic snaps.
The apartment was small—one main room that served as a kitchen and living area, and a single bedroom that she had given entirely to Maya, preferring to sleep on the pull-out sofa herself. She laid her daughter down on the small mattress, pulling the cloud-patterned quilt up to her chin, and tucked the stuffed bear under her arm.
Maya sighed, turning onto her side, her lower lip rolling out in that exact, stubborn pout that Clara had seen at the daycare door that morning.
The mouth. The jaw.
Clara stood in the doorway of the dark bedroom, her hands gripping the frame until the wood splintered beneath her fingers.
He was outside, she thought, the reality of it finally breaking through her shock. He was fifty feet away from her. If he had looked out the window... if Mrs. Gable had brought her to the door three minutes earlier...
She walked into the tiny kitchen, turned on the single overhead bulb, and pulled the card from her pocket. The black ink of his name looked like a threat against the white paper.
She knew how the mafia worked in this city. She had seen the families on the North Side—how they treated children not just as daughters and sons, but as names on a ledger, heirs to be guarded, chips to be played in marriages and alliances. Nico was the head of the table now. If he found out he had a daughter—a legitimate child of his bloodline—Maya would no longer belong to 12th Street. She would belong to the fortress. She would belong to the guards, the armored cars, and the targets that came with the Reyes name.
May you like
"I won't let him have you," Clara whispered to the empty kitchen, tearing the card into four precise, neat pieces and dropping them into the bottom of the trash bin beneath the sink. "You're mine. I paid for you in twelve-hour shifts and cold nights. He doesn't get the prize when he didn't run the race."
She turned off the light, lay down on the hard sofa, and pulled the blanket over her face, listening to the quiet, steady rhythm of her daughter’s breathing through the open bedroom door until the sky outside turned from black to a dull, metropolitan gray.
