Chapter 5 - Behind the Locked DoorHannah walked down the second-floor hallway, her boots making no sound on the thick Persian carpet.
When she reached the last door on the left, she saw why Victor had looked so grim. Two of his armed associates were standing on either side of the white-paneled door like gargoyles guarding a tomb.
“Step aside,” Hannah said, her voice firm.
The larger of the two guards—a hulking brute with a broken nose named Viktorin—crossed his massive arms. “Orders are no one enters. The boy is in a state.”
“And your boss just gave me orders to fix it,” Hannah replied, tapping the side of her leg where she still carried the attitude of a girl who had grown up raising a sick mother in a cramped Bronx apartment. “Unless you want to explain to Mr. Davis why his son is still screaming while you’re standing here blocking the door, I suggest you move.”
The two guards exchanged a brief, hard look. Slowly, Viktorin stepped to the side and gave a curt nod.
Hannah turned the brass handle. It was unlocked.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, pulling it shut behind her.
The room was enormous, decorated with expensive children's furniture, astronomical charts on the ceiling, and bookshelves filled with pristine, unread hardcover books. But the space looked completely sterile, as if no one actually lived in it. In the far corner, huddled inside a massive walk-in bay window overlooking the park, sat Matthew.
He had pulled heavy velvet drapes around himself like a tent. Only his dark, tangled hair and one small, trembling hand clutching a crumpled blue piece of paper were visible.
“Go away,” a muffled voice whispered from inside the fabric curtain. “I won't eat. I won't do it.”
Hannah didn't rush toward him. She walked slowly over to a small mahogany table near the center of the room, set her purse down, and pulled a small white bakery box out of her tote bag—a box she had grabbed from a pastry shop near the subway station on her way uptown.
“I didn't bring pasta,” Hannah said quietly, her voice dropping into a soft, soothing cadence. “And I definitely didn't bring broccoli.”
Inside the velvet tent, the rustling stopped.
Slowly, one small, tear-streaked face peered out from between the drapes. Matthew’s eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, dark circles shadowing his pale skin. He looked smaller today than he had in the restaurant—fragile as blown glass.
“It's you,” he whispered.
“Of course it's me,” Hannah said, walking casually over to the low table and opening the bakery box. “Your dad sent a very large man with scary eyebrows to drag me out of my coffee shop at seven in the morning. I missed my favorite podcast for this.”
Matthew blinked, confusion momentarily breaking through his panic. “You... you came here?”
“Well, technically I was kidnapped by a man named Marcus, but let's call it a house call.” Hannah pulled out a fresh slice of lemon pound cake, setting it on a small china plate. “The chef at this place downstairs told me their pound cake is legendary. I personally think he's full of it, but I need an expert opinion. Are you qualified, or are you just going to hide behind curtains all day?”
Matthew stared at the cake, then down at the blue paper in his hand.
“My dad said I have to eat,” the boy muttered, pulling his knees up against his chest. “He says big boys don't cry. He says I have to be strong.”
Hannah’s heart ached. She walked over, sitting down on the carpet a few feet away from the bay window—not too close, leaving him plenty of space.
“Your dad doesn't know anything about being six years old,” Hannah said softly. “Being six is exhausting. And sometimes things happen that make you feel like the whole world is cracking open. It's okay to be scared, Matthew.”
The boy looked at her, his bottom lip trembling. “They took her things.”
Hannah’s breath hitched. She remembered the note: PLEASE FIND MY MOM'S BLUE BOX.
“Who took them?” she asked gently.
“Uncle Leonard,” Matthew whispered, glancing nervously toward the bedroom door as if the walls had ears. “He said my mom’s things were trash. He packed them up and put them in the basement storage room behind the wine cellar. But my mother’s blue velvet box... it had her secret letters in it. The ones she wrote before she got sick. I want them back, Miss Hannah. But nobody will listen to me.”
Hannah felt a cold chill wash over her spine. Leonard Price—the sleek, smiling associate who had dismissed the boy as 'confused' in the restaurant.
She looked at the small, fragile child sitting across from her, and then toward the heavy mahogany door leading out into the hallway where a mafia empire operated in absolute, ruthless secrecy.
“Matthew,” Hannah said, her voice dropping to a fierce, steady whisper. “Do you want to go find that box?”
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The boy’s eyes widened, shining with sudden, desperate hope. “Can we?”
“We’re going to do more than find it,” Hannah said, standing up and holding out her hand. “We’re going to show your dad what happens when people throw away things that don't belong to them.”
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