Chapter 5 - The Mask Cracks
The silence that followed Sophie’s words was heavy enough to crush bone.
Marcus didn't move for three full seconds. The easy, charming mask on his face slipped—just a fraction of an inch—revealing the cold, calculating reptile beneath.
"Dom..." Marcus chuckled, though the sound was completely hollow. "Did she just... speak?"
"She did," I said.
Marcus looked back up at the stairs. Sophie hadn't retreated. She stood like a marble statue, watching him.
"Yellow coat?" Marcus forced a wider grin, though his knuckles were turning white against his tumbler. "What's she talking about? Little bird having a nightmare?"
From the shadows of the upper corridor, Grace stepped into view. She gently rested her hands on Sophie’s shoulders, pulling the little girl back toward the bedroom wing.
"She’s sleepwalking, Mr. Romano," Grace announced calmly from the balcony. "I’ll tuck her back in."
Marcus watched Grace lead Sophie away. His eyes narrowed, tracking Grace’s posture, measuring her. He took a slow breath, turned back to me, and downed his drink in one swallow.
"She hasn't spoken a syllable in over a year, Dom," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a lower, more dangerous register. "And the first thing she says is nonsense about a yellow coat?"
"Trauma does strange things to memory," I replied, walking over to the bar to pour myself a glass of water. My back was to him for two seconds—a deliberate gamble to test his nerve.
"Does she... remember anything else?" Marcus asked, his tone too casual. "About that morning?"
"The doctors say memories from that age are mostly fragmented dreams," I lied smoothly, turning around with the glass in hand. "Colors. Sounds. Nothing actionable. Julian is coming over later with the quarterly audit files. You should head home and get some sleep, Marcus. Tomorrow is a long day."
Marcus stared at me. He was evaluating my pulse, my breathing, the set of my shoulders. He had killed men beside me in our youth; he knew every tell I possessed.
I gave him nothing. I gave him the hollow shell of a grieving widower who had given up on finding answers.
Finally, Marcus nodded. "Right. The audit. Get some rest yourself, brother. You look run down."
He set his empty glass on the marble console, patted my arm with a heavy, patronizing clap, and walked out the front doors.
I stood by the window, watching his taillights disappear down the driveway.
Two minutes later, my phone pinged. Julian:
*Marcus pulled two million from our offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands forty minutes ago. Dom... he’s liquidating.*
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He was running. But Marcus Kane was not the kind of man to leave loose ends behind.
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