Chapter 4 - The Net Draws Tight
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sound was heavy, deliberate, and echoed through the hollow wood of the hallway door like pistol shots.
Elena scrambled out of the chair, clutching Sophia against her chest with both arms. The baby let out a small, startled cry, her dark eyes opening wide as she felt the sudden, frantic energy in Elena’s muscles.
"Shh, shh, little one," Elena breathed into the baby’s curls, backing away toward the small kitchenette where a row of rusted pipes ran behind the stove. "Quiet... please, sweet girl, be quiet."
"Elena!" a coarse, gravelly voice barked from the corridor. "Open up! I know you're in there, I saw the light go on forty minutes ago!"
Elena froze. Her knees shook so violently she had to lean her shoulder against the refrigerator to stay upright.
It wasn't the mafia. It was Mr. Henderson.
"Elena!" Henderson shouted again, rattling the brass doorknob from the outside. "Your rent was due on the first! It's the fourth! I got three guys from the city inspection team coming through the basement at noon, and I need my money or you get your trunks out on the sidewalk!"
Elena swallowed the lump of dry panic in her throat. She tucked Sophia into the space between the kitchen counter and the refrigerator, laying her down on a pile of clean folded towels, and placed her finger over her own lips.
Sophia looked up at her with big, solemn brown eyes, her thumb slipping into her mouth.
Elena walked to the door, opened it three inches, and kept the safety chain locked in its slot.
Mr. Henderson stood in the dimly lit hallway, wearing a stained undershirt and sweatpants, a unlit cigar stub clamped between his yellow teeth. His greasy grey hair was slicked back, and his eyes were small and wet.
"Where’s my four hundred dollars, Elena?" he demanded, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Mr. Henderson," Elena said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to keep it steady. "I... I was called in for an extra shift last night. My check hasn't cleared yet. I will have it by tomorrow afternoon, I promise you."
"Tomorrow?" Henderson sneered, leaning closer so the smell of old tobacco and onions rolled through the three-inch gap. "You said tomorrow on Tuesday! I don't run a charity for foreign girls who work hotel shifts! And what’s that smell?"
His eyes narrowed as he peered through the crack, trying to look past her shoulder toward the kitchenette.
"What smell?" Elena asked, stepping sideways to block his view.
"Smells like baby powder," Henderson said, his eyebrows knitting together. "You got someone in there? I told you when you signed the paper—no overnight guests, no kids, no sub-leases. You got a kid in my basement, Elena?"
"No!" she said quickly—too quickly. "It's... it's a laundry detergent I bought. A new brand."
Henderson stared at her for three long seconds. He didn't believe her. She could see the mean, calculating math going on behind his eyes—the math of a slumlord who was looking for an excuse to double the rent or keep her security deposit.
"Tomorrow at five o'clock," Henderson threatened, tapping his dirty index finger against the wooden frame. "Four hundred cash. Or I bring the bolt cutters and I put your stuff on the curb. You hear me?"
"I hear you," Elena whispered.
He turned and lumbered down the hallway, his heavy slippers dragging against the concrete floor.
Elena closed the door, slid the deadbolt into place, and sank down onto her knees against the wood. She pulled her hair back with both hands, her chest heaving as she let out a long, silent sob.
She had thirty-six hours before Henderson threw her out. She had sixty-two dollars in her coat pocket. She had no job at the Chatzsworth anymore.
And in her kitchen, wrapped in a Gucci onesie and a towel, was Sophia Moretti.
She couldn't stay here. The city inspectors were coming at noon. Henderson would be back. And outside, somewhere in the five boroughs, Lorenzo Moretti’s men were tearing the city apart block by block.
Elena walked back to the kitchenette, picked up the baby, and held her against her cheek.
"We have to go," Elena whispered into the soft dark hair. "We have to find your father before someone else finds us."
She laid Sophia on the narrow bed, pulled her small canvas duffel bag out from under the frame, and began packing. She packed two bottles, the rest of the condensed milk, her remaining pair of socks, a warm sweater, and the thin blanket from her bed.
Then she took the platinum necklace with the lion crest, unclasped it from Sophia's neck, and tucked it deep inside her own brassiere, right against her skin.
May you like
If she was stopped by the police or Moretti's men, she couldn't be caught holding the child with the crest visibly displayed. But she needed that chain. It was Sophia’s identity. It was the only proof that Elena hadn't stolen the baby—that she was returning her.
At eleven o'clock, with Sophia secured beneath her heavy winter coat in an improvised fabric sling made from a cotton bedsheet, Elena opened her basement door, checked the empty hallway, and walked out into the cold rain.
