Chapter 3 - The Little Warrior
Dominic’s mind raced, his tactical assessment instantly dismantling his previous suspicions. This wasn't a spy meeting. This wasn't a cartel drop.
Through the glass, he watched the boy look up as Linda approached. A weak, ghost-like smile touched the child's lips, transforming his gaunt face. Linda dropped her bag, fell to her knees beside the rolling bed, and gently stroked the boy's head with a tenderness that Dominic had never witnessed in his entire life.
"Mama," the boy whispered, his voice raspy and thin, like dry paper scraping against stone.
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"I'm here, Leo. I'm right here, my sweet boy," Linda whispered back, her voice cracking as tears finally spilled over her lashes. She pulled out the thick stack of cash Dominic had handed her just thirty minutes prior, pressing the banded hundreds against her chest before setting them on the bedside table next to a mountain of past-due medical bills.
Dominic gripped the doorframe, his knuckles turning white. The cold, untouchable mafia boss felt a strange, heavy pressure tightening in his chest. The mystery of the shrinking frame, the missing hours, the trembling hands, and the desperate plea for an advance—it all crashed down on him with devastating clarity. She wasn't betraying him. She was working herself to death to keep her dying son alive.
