Chapter 2 - The Blind Spot
The east wing of the Romano manor was shielded behind four inches of reinforced cedar and soundproofed drywall. Damian walked down the hallway with an unnatural stiffness, his arms cradling the girl against his ribcage. She was remarkably light, her breath warm against his throat, one small hand hooked into the collar of his tailored shirt like a burr.
Dr. Evans was waiting in the study, his leather medical bag already open on the mahogany desk. Beside him stood Elena, the head housekeeper who had served the Romano family for forty years. When Elena saw the child, she dropped the clean towels she was carrying.
"Madre de Dios," Elena whispered, crossing herself. "Anthony..."
"She isn’t a ghost, Elena," Damian said, laying Mia down gently on the leather sofa. The girl whined at the loss of contact, curling into a tight ball around her threadbare rabbit. Damian felt an unfamiliar tightening in his chest as he pulled a cashmere throw over her small shoulders. "Examine her, Evans. Look for trauma, malnutrition, or track marks. I want to know where she’s been living."
The physician moved quickly, using gentle hands. "No physical abuse, Damian. Dehydrated, mild bronchial irritation consistent with damp air or coal smoke. But look here." Evans turned the girl's left wrist.
Faintly visible beneath the grime was an ink stamp—a circular emblem featuring a broken anchor inside a shield.
Damian’s jaw hardened. "The old dry docks. Corrado’s salvage company."
Before Evans could answer, the door swung open, and Corrado Romano stepped inside. At sixty-five, Damian’s uncle still carried himself like a heavyweight brawler, his broad frame wrapped in an expensive wool overcoat, his eyes heavy with sleep and suspicion.
"Damian," Corrado rumbled, glancing at the doctor, then at the child on the couch. "Luca said there was a collapse at the old river lot. What is this circus?"
Damian stood between his uncle and the sofa. He reached into his pocket, retrieved the silver watch, and held it out by the chain. It dangled between them, turning slowly under the chandelier.
Corrado stopped dead. The color drained from his weathered face, leaving it the shade of spoiled milk. His fingers twitched toward his coat pocket before freezing.
"Where did you get that?" Corrado asked, his voice cracking around the edges.
"She carried it," Damian said, pointing his chin toward Mia. "Right past thirty-eight of your handpicked security guards, through the south orchard, directly to my bench. She had it sewn into her toy."
Corrado swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the heavy mahogany doors behind him. "Damian... that watch was lost twenty years ago. Some scavengers must have dredged it from the silt."
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"My father's handwriting was inside the lid, Uncle," Damian said quietly. "Fresh graphite. Written on paper manufactured less than five years ago. You told me you watched him drown."
***
