Chapter 5 - The Gathering Storm
By Friday morning, the tension inside Castellano Manor had reached a boiling point.
Word of Victor’s promise—offering half his empire and his hand in marriage to whoever made Leo speak—had leaked beyond the underworld. Reporters from the Chicago Tribune and local TV stations had begun staking out the wrought-iron perimeter gates, hoping to catch a glimpse of the child or the mysterious fortune hunters attempting to breach the estate.
Inside the mansion, Mrs. Croft was performing damage control.
“The front gates are swarming with tabloid journalists,” Mrs. Croft muttered as she handed Iris a stack of fresh linens in the second-floor linen room. “And Master Victor is closeted in his study with three regional capos. Something big is coming. A turf war is brewing on the West Side, and the Outfit is testing our shipping lanes.”
“And Leo?” Iris asked, folding a crisp white pillowcase.
“Master Leo has refused to leave the window seat in the library all morning,” Mrs. Croft sighed, rubbing her temples. “He hasn't touched his breakfast. If this keeps up, Master Victor is going to bring in another high-priced specialist from New York—another stranger in an expensive suit to poke and prod at the boy.”
Iris didn't answer. She set the linens down, her mind made up.
That afternoon, while the household staff was distracted by a delivery of security upgrades at the front gates, Iris slipped quietly through the service corridors toward the grand library.
The library was a two-story cathedral of leather-bound books, ancient maps, and towering mahogany shelves. A massive stone fireplace dominated the far wall, though no fire was lit today, casting the room in a cool, gray afternoon light.
Leo was sitting exactly where Mrs. Croft had said—curled up in the deep velvet cushions of the window seat, staring out through the reinforced glass at the gray Chicago sky. Mr. Bumbles was clutched tightly in his lap.
Iris walked in slowly, making sure her footsteps were heavy enough for him to hear her coming. She didn't want to startle him.
She stopped ten feet away and lowered herself onto the floor, sitting cross-legged just as she had in the nursery. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out something she had spent her lunch break crafting: a small, intricately folded origami crane made from a plain white napkin.
She placed the paper crane on the carpet between them.
Then, she pulled out a red colored pencil and set it beside the crane.
Leo didn't move. He continued staring out the window.
Iris didn't push. She closed her eyes, remembering how she used to sit with Maya during her darkest days in the hospital—just breathing in rhythm with the child, letting her know she wasn't alone in the dark. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
Ten minutes passed. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked methodically.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Leo shifted his weight. His small knees uncurled. He slid off the window seat, landing with a soft thud on the Persian rug.
He crept forward on his hands and knees, stopping two feet away from her.
He reached out and picked up the white paper crane. He turned it over in his small, ink-stained fingers, examining the precise folds. Then, he looked up at Iris.
His dark eyes were no longer completely empty. There was a spark of curiosity—a tiny, fragile ember of life flickering beneath the ash.
Leo opened his mouth. His lips parted, trembling slightly. He drew in a sharp breath, as if he wanted to form a word, to test a sound that had been locked away for eight long months.
Clack.
The heavy oak library doors swung wide open with a deafening bang.
Two armed enforcers rushed into the room, followed immediately by Victor Castellano, whose face was dark with lethal panic.
“Get away from him!” Victor roared, drawing his weapon as he crossed the room in three strides, planting himself between Iris and his son.
Leo shrieked—a sharp, terrified sound—and scrambled backward into the shadows of the bookshelf, clutching Mr. Bumbles to his chest while silent tears streamed down his pale cheeks.
Iris scrambled to her feet, her hands raised defensively. “Mr. Castellano, stop! He was just—!”
“You were warned!” Victor’s voice shook with suppressed rage, his pistol lowered but his finger twitching near the trigger guard. He looked down at his terrified son, then back at Iris with burning fury. “You think because you share a hospital memory with my late wife, you have special privileges here? You are a servant! Get out of this room before I forget myself.”
Iris stared at Victor, her own anger finally boiling over the terror.
“You aren't protecting him, Mr. Castellano,” Iris said, her voice ringing clear and steady through the cavernous library. “You’re keeping him in a cage of your own making. Every time you scream, every time you bring a gun into this room, you prove to him that the world is a dangerous place where nobody is safe. You’re the reason he won't speak!”
The air in the library froze so completely that even the dust motes seemed to hang motionless in the air.
May you like
Victor’s face drained of color. The threat in his eyes vanished, replaced for a split second by a raw, devastating wound. No one had ever spoken to Victor Castellano like that—not his capos, not the city councilmen, not even his own father.
“Get out,” Victor whispered, his voice dangerously low, the words slicing like a razor blade. “Pack your bags. You are fired. Your final wages will be wired to your bank account by morning.”
