Chapter 4 - The Shadows of the Past
Two weeks passed following the exile of Evelyn Vance, and the Cain Estate settled into an strange, uncharacteristic routine.
The tension that usually hung over the mansion had begun to shift. Rosa was no longer just the silent maid who cleaned the east wing corridors. Because of Sophia, she had been given a new assignment: supervising the ground-floor living quarters during the afternoons, which meant Sophia was allowed to stay in the sunroom after school while Rosa worked.
Damon Cain was a man of strict habit. Every day at 4:00 PM, he would return from his "business meetings" in the city, walk into his private library, and drink a glass of scotch while reviewing documents.
Now, however, his routine had changed.
At 4:15 PM, he would walk to the glass doors of the sunroom, stand silently in his charcoal suit, and watch Sophia draw pictures on the large wooden coffee table.
Zeus, the terrifying Cane Corso who had previously spent his days chained near the carriage house, now slept peacefully on a sheepskin rug at the little girl's feet. The beast barely grunted when Sophia used his massive back as a footrest while she colored with her crayons.
"He likes purple," Sophia announced one afternoon without looking up from her drawing paper.
Damon was standing in the doorway, holding a crystal glass of amber liquid. He paused. "Who likes purple?"
"Zeus," Sophia said, holding up a crude crayon drawing of a giant black dog wearing a bright purple crown. "I made him a king."
Damon stepped into the room, his dark eyes softening as he looked at the paper. He sat down in the leather armchair beside the table—the same chair his late wife had loved.
"A king, huh?" Damon murmured. "He certainly acts like one."
Rosa stepped into the sunroom carrying a tray of fresh tea, her heart hammering against her ribs as she always felt whenever Mr. Cain was near her daughter. "Sophia, sweetie, don't bother Mr. Cain while he's working."
"She's not bothering me, Rosa," Damon said, raising a hand softly. "Let her draw."
Rosa set the tea tray down on a side table and hovered nervously near the doorway. Over the past two weeks, she had learned more about Damon Cain through household gossip than she had in two years of working there.
She learned that five years ago, Damon's wife Elena and their three-year-old daughter, Mia Sophia, had been involved in a tragic car accident on an icy highway outside Boston. A rival crime syndicate had tampered with the vehicle's brake lines. Elena died instantly. Little Mia survived for two days in the ICU before succumbing to her injuries.
The tragedy had turned Damon Cain into a ghost—a cold, ruthless ruler who systematically eliminated every person responsible for the hit, earned his title as the supreme mob boss of New England, and locked his heart inside a vault of concrete and steel.
Until a fearless six-year-old girl walked up to his attack dog in the rain.
"Mr. Cain?" Sophia asked, holding her purple crayon in mid-air.
"Yes, Sophia?"
"Why do you always wear black suits? Are you going to a funeral?"
Rosa gasped, nearly dropping her teapot. "Sophia! Hush!"
Damon held up a hand, a quiet dark chuckle escaping his throat—a sound that made even Marco, standing guard outside the window, turn his head in shock.
"No, Sophia," Damon replied softly, looking down at his dark jacket. "I wear black because... well, I suppose I forgot how to wear any other color."
"That's silly," Sophia said matter-of-factly, digging into her big plastic box of crayons. She pulled out a bright, fluorescent yellow crayon and held it out to him. "Here. Keep this in your pocket. Yellow makes people happy."
Damon stared at the cheap yellow crayon resting in the palm of her tiny hand. For a man who owned millions in offshore accounts, shipping lines, and real estate, that piece of wax looked heavier than gold.
Slowly, carefully, Damon reached out his large, scarred hand and took the crayon from her fingers.
"Thank you," Damon whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he tucked the bright yellow crayon into the front breast pocket of his five-thousand-dollar suit, right beside his silk pocket square. "I'll keep it with me."
Just then, the heavy wooden doors of the entrance hall slammed open.
May you like
Marco rushed into the room, his face pale, his hand gripping the brass handle of his concealed firearm.
"Boss," Marco said, his voice laced with urgent panic. "We've got a problem at the front gate. The Moretti family just pulled up in three vehicles. Lorenzo Moretti is demanding to see you."
