Chapter 2 - The Daisy in the Shadow
Damiano’s fingers froze on the cold grip of his Sig Sauer. For twenty years, his instinct upon being touched while sleeping was lethal. Yet here, under his grandfather's oak tree, the weight on his chest was less than thirty pounds.
Lily settled her chin on her hands, kicking her tiny bare feet in the air. She didn't see the dangerous mafia boss of the Hudson Valley. She saw a giant man who looked like he needed a friend.
"You're big," Lily announced solemnly, reaching out a sticky finger to touch the sharp angle of his jaw. "My name is Lily. I have three cars and a purple shoe."
Damiano slowly withdrew his hand from his suit jacket, placing it flat on the grass. His heart—usually cold and measured—was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Where is your mother, little one?" Damiano asked, his deep voice sounding unusually rough, as if he hadn't used it for gentleness in decades.
"In the big kitchen," Lily whispered, pointing a chubby finger toward the grand mansion. "She said stay. But the butterfly was yellow. Like my dress."
Before Damiano could answer, a frantic gasp echoed across the lawn.
Isabel dropped her metal serving tray onto the stone pathway with a deafening CLANG. She sprinted across the grass, her face completely drained of color, her eyes wide with unimaginable terror. She had heard the rumors about Damiano Vitale—that he was a monster who eliminated anyone who crossed his path.
"Lily! No!" Isabel cried out, dropping to her knees beside the tree and reaching for her daughter with trembling hands. "Oh God, please... sir, I'm so sorry! Please don't hurt her! She's only three!"
Lily looked confused by her mother's panic. "Mommy, the sleeping man woke up!"
Damiano sat up slowly, easing Lily off his chest and onto the soft grass. He stood to his full height, his dark eyes fixing on Isabel. He saw the genuine, raw panic in her pale blue eyes, the worn fabric of her maid's uniform, and the faint, faded scar near her jaw—a mark he recognized immediately as the work of an abusive man.
"She wasn't in any danger," Damiano said quietly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiping a smear of butter from Lily's cheek. "You work here?"
"Yes, sir," Isabel stammered, pulling Lily tightly into her lap, shielding the child with her body. "I... I'm Isabel. The sitter canceled... I couldn't miss work. I swear she didn't mean to intrude—"
"Isabel," Damiano interrupted, his tone even and firm. "Take a breath. Nobody is being punished."
He looked down at Lily, who offered him a wilted daisy she had picked from the lawn.
Damiano knelt back down—a man who never bowed to kings—and took the tiny flower from the girl's hand, sliding it into the breast pocket of his three-thousand-dollar bespoke suit.
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"Keep her in the main house, Isabel," Damiano said softly. "The grounds aren't as safe as they look."
As Isabel carried her daughter back toward the mansion, holding her like precious cargo, Damiano watched them go. For the first time in twenty years, the ticking of his father's silver pocket watch felt unusually loud in his chest.
