Chapter 7 - Rules of the House
The first week at the Beacon Hill estate felt like living in an alternate reality.
The children, who were used to sharing a single cramped bathroom and taking turns on a drafty couch, suddenly had two entire floors to explore. There was a library filled with floor-to-ceiling books for Sophie, a game room with an old billiards table where Caleb and Nico spent hours competing, and an immense garden where Luis searched for rare stones.
Every morning at seven, a warm breakfast was served in the grand dining room—pancakes, fresh fruit, bacon, and warm milk.
Yet, despite the luxury, a quiet tension hung in the air.
Victor Vance was a man of strict routine. At precisely eight in the morning, he would sit at the head of the dark oak dining table, dressed in a sharp three-piece suit, reading the morning papers while four security guards stood quietly near the doors.
The kids were terrified of him at first. Whenever Victor entered a room, Jamal would freeze, Talia would step in front of the younger ones, and the room would go dead silent.
On Friday morning, six-year-old Avery accidentally knocked over a crystal glass during breakfast. The heavy glass shattered against the hardwood floor, juice splashing across the rug.
Avery instantly gasped, her small face turning ghostly pale. She scrambled under the table, curling into a ball, shaking violently as she covered her head with her arms.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Don't lock me in the closet!" she sobbed frantically.
The entire dining room froze. Jamal reached for a napkin, his hands shaking. Talia stood up quickly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor.
Victor slowly set his coffee cup down. He looked at Avery curled up under the table, then looked at me. My heart ached—Avery’s previous foster family had used confinement as punishment, a trauma that still haunted her.
I started to get up, but Victor held up a gentle hand, stopping me.
To my complete shock, the formidable mob boss slowly pushed his chair back, lowered his massive frame onto the floor, and slid under the dining table alongside the six-year-old girl.
I held my breath.
Victor sat crisscross on the rug under the table, his expensive suit trousers getting juice on them. He didn't touch Avery. He pulled a pristine white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and began gently wiping up the spilled juice near her feet.
"You know, Avery," Victor said in a low, quiet voice that didn't sound like a Don at all. "When I was seven years old, I knocked over my mother's favorite porcelain vase. It smashed into a hundred pieces."
Avery’s sobbing quieted slightly. She peeked through her fingers at him. "Did she lock you away?"
"No," Victor said, offering her a tiny, rare smile. "She handed me a broom, helped me sweep it up, and then we ate ice cream on the porch. Glasses break, small one. That’s why people buy new ones."
He held out his big, rough hand.
Avery hesitated for a moment, then uncurled herself, reaching out her tiny hand and placing it into Victor’s palm. Victor gently helped her crawl out from under the table, lifting her easily into a chair, and signaled Arthur to bring a fresh glass.
"Nobody locks anyone in closets in this house," Victor announced, looking around the table at all nine children. "That is Rule Number One. Do you all understand me?"
May you like
The children stared at him, nodding slowly.
From across the room, I caught Victor’s eye. The cold, dangerous gangster had just vanished for a second, revealing a man who possessed an unexpected, profound grace. And for the first time since we arrived, I felt a warm, fluttery sensation in my chest that had nothing to do with fear.
