Chapter 2 - The House on Maple Street
The fifty-thousand-dollar check cleared the very next morning.
I remember sitting on the edge of our thin mattress in our old apartment while Mommy stood by the small kitchen window, staring at her phone screen for ten minutes without moving. Her hand was over her mouth, and her shoulders were shaking. I thought she was crying because she was sad, but when she turned around, her face was bright and full of light.
"We're moving, Rory," she whispered, dropping to her knees to wrap me in a big hug. "We're leaving tonight."
We packed everything we owned into four black garbage bags and two old suitcases. We didn't have much—just our clothes, a few worn books, my drawing pads, and the small wooden box that held my daddy's silver watch, the only thing he had left us when he died in the hospital three years ago.
By five o'clock that evening, a knock came at our door.
When Mommy opened it, expecting the angry landlord coming to collect his late fee, it was Salvatore standing in the hallway. He was wearing a dark gray suit this time, carrying a small leather bag, looking entirely too big for our tiny, creaking apartment building.
"Mrs. Carter," Salvatore said, nodding his head politely. "Mr. Kane sent me."
"Mr. Salvatore," Mommy said nervously, stepping back. "Is... is something wrong? Did the check—"
"The check is fine," Salvatore interrupted, his rough voice surprisingly soft. "Mr. Kane bought a property in Lincoln Park yesterday. A two-story townhouse on Maple Street. He wants you and the kid to move in."
Mommy blinked, her hands clutching the hem of her cardigan. "What? No... no, I can't accept that. The money from Mr. Sterling was more than enough to cover our rent for a year in a safe neighborhood. I can't take a house from Mr. Kane!"
Salvatore didn't argue. He simply reached into his leather bag and pulled out a heavy metal key attached to a brass ring, along with a thick white envelope.
"Mr. Kane doesn't like to repeat himself, ma'am," Salvatore said, holding out the key. "The house is already in your name. Taxes are paid for the next ten years. The envelope has a contract inside. A job contract."
Mommy took the envelope with trembling fingers. "A job?"
"The Kane Foundation manages several community centers and youth programs in the South Side," Salvatore explained. "Mr. Kane needs an executive administrator to manage the payroll and logistics. Starting salary is eighty-five thousand a year, with full medical benefits for you and the kid."
Mommy stared at the envelope as if it were made of glass. "I... I'm just a server, Mr. Salvatore. I have an associate's degree in accounting, but I haven't worked in an office in five years..."
"Mr. Kane knows your credentials, Mrs. Carter. He checked them last night," Salvatore said flatly. "He says if you can keep track of seventy-seven days of stolen wages on a piece of scrap paper down to the exact cent, you're more qualified than the last three idiots he hired. My car is downstairs. Let's get your bags."
An hour later, the black sedan pulled up to a tree-lined street where the houses looked like something out of a storybook.
The townhouse on Maple Street had dark red bricks, a dark green front door with a brass knocker shaped like a lion's head, and a tiny front yard with blooming hydrangeas. Inside, the rooms smelled like fresh paint and pine wood. There were high ceilings, large windows that let in the fading golden sunlight, and furniture that looked brand new and soft.
I ran straight up the carpeted stairs to the top floor.
My room had yellow walls—my favorite color—a big white bed with a fluffy comforter, and a wooden desk near the window with a brand-new set of sixty-four crayons and a thick drawing pad waiting on top.
"Look, Mommy!" I squealed, jumping up and down on the soft rug. "Look at the crayons! They have the sharpener built into the back of the box!"
Mommy stood in the doorway, tears silent on her cheeks, but for the first time in as long as I could remember, she was smiling.
For the next two years, life became something entirely different from the quiet, scary days in our old apartment.
Mommy started her job at the Kane Foundation, leaving early in the morning looking sharp and professional in new suits, her head held high. She managed the budgets for three youth centers, ensuring that children from poor neighborhoods got hot meals, after-school tutoring, and safe places to play.
Every Friday afternoon, a black sedan would park quietly outside my new school.
The other kids' parents drove minivans or SUVs, but everyone knew the black sedan with the tinted windows. The teachers would bow their heads slightly when Salvatore stepped out to open the door for me.
"How was school, kiddo?" Salvatore would ask, taking my pink backpack and tossing it effortlessly into the back seat.
"We learned about dinosaurs today, Sal," I would tell him, scrambling into the leather seat. "Did you know the Tyrannosaurus Rex had tiny arms?"
"Is that so?" Sal would mutter, pulling out into traffic with practiced ease. "Sounds like a guy I used to know in Brooklyn. All mouth, no reach."
Sometimes, the car didn't take me straight home. Sometimes, it drove down into the heart of the city, stopping behind the grand, heavy stone doors of the Kane Building on Michigan Avenue.
The guards at the front doors—men with broad shoulders and sharp suits—would smile and wave as I walked through the lobby. I would ride the private elevator all the way to the top floor, where the carpet was so soft it felt like walking on moss.
In the massive corner office overlooking the blue waters of Lake Michigan, Vincent Kane would be sitting behind his dark walnut desk, surrounded by piles of documents, glowing computer screens, and quiet men speaking in low voices.
The moment the elevator doors dinged, the meetings would stop.
"That's all for today, gentlemen," Vincent would say, waving his hand toward his captains. "We'll resume tomorrow morning."
The big, scary men would gather their papers, nod politely to me as they walked past—"Afternoon, Little Miss Rory"—and clear out of the room, leaving just Vincent and me.
Vincent would lean back in his tall leather chair, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Come here, half-pint."
I would run across the giant room, climb right up into the heavy leather chair across from him, and pull out my drawing pad.
"What are we working on today?" Vincent would ask, reaching into his desk drawer to pull out a small glass jar filled with rich milk chocolates—the kind he kept specifically for when I visited.
"I drew a picture of your car," I would tell him, sliding the page across his desk. "I gave it rocket boosters in the back so you can catch bad guys faster."
Vincent would pick up the drawing, examining it with the same sharp, serious intensity he used for million-dollar contracts.
"Rocket boosters," he would murmur, nodding slowly. "That's a sound tactical upgrade. I'll have the mechanics look into it."
"Are you still making bad men keep their promises?" I asked him one afternoon, swinging my legs off the front of the chair.
Vincent looked at me over the rim of his reading glasses, his dark eyes soften just a bit. "Every day, Rory. Every single day."
"Mommy says you're a guardian angel," I said, popping a chocolate into my mouth.
Vincent let out a short, dark laugh that sounded like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "Your mother has a very generous imagination, kid. Nobody in this city has ever called me an angel before."
"Well, you are," I said with the absolute certainty only a six-year-old can have. "You gave us the house with the yellow room. And you made Mr. Sterling stop being mean."
Vincent's face went still for a moment. He reached out, his big thumb gently brushing a smudge of blue crayon off my knuckle.
"The world is full of men like Sterling, Rory," Vincent said quietly, his voice carrying a dark, quiet weight. "They think because they have a little money and a little power, they can crush people who are smaller than them. They think no one is watching."
He leaned closer, looking straight into my eyes.
"As long as I am breathing in this city, no one is ever going to crush you or your mother again. Do you understand me?"
May you like
"Yes, Mr. Vincent," I said.
"Good," he said, tapping the drawing. "Now draw me another rocket on the side of this car. A bigger one."
