Chapter 4 - The Woman in the Yellow Cardigan
The tenement building at 44 Charter Street smelled of damp plaster, boiling garlic, and old winter coats.
Dominic climbed the three flights of stairs in silence, his boots heavy against the worn wooden steps. Leo and two armed guards waited at the entrance below, under strict orders not to follow unless he fired a shot.
He stopped in front of apartment 3B.
The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm yellow light spilling out onto the dark hallway. From inside came the faint sound of a child’s voice humming a melody—a melancholy, lilting tune that Dominic hadn’t heard in four agonizing years.
Maribel’s tune.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hand rose, his knuckles trembling slightly before they rapped twice against the splintered wood.
The humming stopped instantly.
Light footsteps padded across the floorboards inside. The chain lock rattled, and the door swung open.
Standing in the doorway was the woman from the alley photograph.
She wore a faded flannel shirt and denim jeans, her dark hair pulled back into a loose clip, but those gray-green eyes—the exact same eyes as the little girl who had slapped his wrist—looked up at him with a mixture of terror, resignation, and profound sorrow.
It wasn't a ghost.
It was Maribel.
She looked older, thinner, the delicate lines of her face hardened by years of hiding and survival, but the recognition between them was instantaneous and absolute.
“Hello, Dominic,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
Dominic couldn't speak. He stepped across the threshold, his large frame filling the tiny apartment, his gaze devouring every inch of her face as if afraid she would dissolve into smoke if he blinked.
“You’re dead,” Dominic finally managed, his voice tearing raw from his throat. “I buried you. I stood by an open grave in Calvary Cemetery and watched them lower a casket with your name on it.”
“I know,” Maribel said, tears spilling over her lashes, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. She backed away slowly as he advanced into the cramped living room. “I’m sorry, Dom. I am so, so sorry.”
“Explain it,” Dominic demanded, stepping closer, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. “Explain why my wife let me mourn her for four years while she hid in a rat-trap tenement three blocks away from my favorite café.”
“Because staying away was the only way to keep you alive!” Maribel cried out, her voice breaking as she gestured wildly around the small room. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to watch you from a distance, watching you grow colder, harder, more isolated every single day? On the night of the crash, I found out the truth about your inner circle. Someone high up in your organization had sold us out to the federal prosecutors and a rival syndicate. They rigged the brakes on my car, Dom. They meant to kill me to punish you.”
Dominic froze, the pieces clicking together with terrifying speed. “Who?”
“I don’t know his name,” Maribel sobbed, sinking onto the edge of a worn velvet sofa. “I survived the wreck, but barely. When I woke up in a clinic in Rhode Island under an assumed name, a corrupt federal agent warned me that if I ever came back, if you ever found out I was alive, they would kill you and our unborn child—the baby I was carrying when the car went off the road.”
Dominic stared at her, the room tilting on its axis. He looked down—and standing in the doorway of the small kitchen, holding a glass of water and wearing the yellow cardigan, was Annie.
“Mommy?” Annie whispered, looking between Dominic and her mother with wide, frightened eyes. “Is this the bad man from the café?”
May you like
Dominic’s breath hitched. He dropped slowly to his knees on the threadbare carpet, looking at the little girl who possessed his fierce jawline and her mother’s luminous eyes.
“No, sweetheart,” Maribel whispered, wiping her tears and reaching out to stroke her daughter’s red-brown hair. “That’s not a bad man. That’s your father.”
