Chapter 4 - The Pancakes and the SuitAt seven o'clock the following morning, the sun broke through the Manhattan smog in thin, pale rays of gold. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the air washed clean and crisp with the chill of late autumn.
Inside the penthouse kitchen, the smell of burnt batter and melted butter filled the air.
Gabriel stood over the stove wearing a plain white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a black silk tie loosely knotted around his unbuttoned collar. In his left hand, he held a stainless steel spatula; in his right, he held a small, charcoal-gray wool coat that had just arrived from the tailor.
He flipped a pancake. It was distinctly black on one side and pale yellow on the other.
"That one's burned," a quiet voice noted from the doorway.
Gabriel turned around.
Ellie stood near the hall, wearing the new dark grey wool dress he had ordered for her, her hair brushed neat and straight down her back. She looked small, but impossibly tidy.
"It's not burned," Gabriel said smoothly, sliding the blackened disc onto a white porcelain plate. "It's caramelized."
Ellie walked over to the kitchen island, climbed onto the tall barstool, and looked at the stack of four somewhat-lopsided pancakes sitting before her. "My dad used to burn them too. He said the smoke alarm was just the kitchen timer."
Gabriel set the spatula down. The tightness in his chest returned, sharp and sudden. "He sounds like he was full of excuses."
"He was," Ellie agreed, picking up her fork. She poked at the pancake, then took a small bite. She chewed slowly, swallowed, and looked up at him. "Your hands are dirty."
Gabriel looked down at his right hand. Beneath his fingernails was a faint, dark shadow of gun oil and carbon residue from the warehouse cleanup four hours ago. He hadn't slept a single minute. He had spent three hours disposing of Frankie's crew and another two hours securing a non-aggression agreement from Old Man Falcone through a series of frantic, high-stakes phone calls.
He walked over to the sink, turned on the hot water, and began scrubbing his hands with stiff soap.
"It's engine grease," Gabriel lied smoothly. "The car needed work."
"You don't fix your own car," Ellie said, watching him carefully. "Sal fixes the car. You just sit in the back and look mean."
Gabriel paused, soap suds dripping from his wrists. He looked at her reflection in the glass above the sink. "You notice a lot for a seven-year-old."
"If you don't notice things, people take your stuff," she said simply. "That's what my foster brother told me."
Gabriel dried his hands on a clean linen towel, walked back over to the island, and picked up a heavy velvet box he’d set on the counter earlier. He slid it across the marble toward her.
Ellie looked at the box, then at him. "What's this?"
"Father's Day present," Gabriel said, taking a seat on the stool beside her. "Open it."
She set her fork down and opened the small velvet latch. Inside lay a delicate silver chain holding a small, polished silver locket.
She reached down and popped the locket open with her thumbnail. Inside were two tiny, perfectly cropped photographs. On the left was the picture of her father, Thomas Marsh, carrying her on his shoulders. On the right was a new photograph—a high-resolution frame captured by the penthouse security system yesterday evening, showing Ellie sitting on the leather sofa, wrapped in the cashmere blanket, looking calm and safe.
Ellie stared at the tiny image for a long time. Her lower lip began to tremble—the first sign of real weakness she had shown since she walked into that wet alley eighteen hours ago.
"You're not in the picture," she whispered.
"I'm the one who took it," Gabriel said quietly. "Or my cameras were, anyway."
Ellie swallowed hard, wiping a single stray tear from her cheek before it could drop onto the velvet box. She snapped the locket shut and held it out toward him. "Put it on me?"
Gabriel’s large, calloused hands—hands that had snapped necks and signed orders that ruined families—were strangely unsteady as he reached around her small neck to fasten the delicate silver clasp. His fingers brushed against her warm skin, and for a fraction of a second, he felt an overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms and swear to God above that no harm would ever come to her again.
May you like
He pulled his hands back quickly, stepping away.
"Eat your caramelized pancakes," he said, his voice gruff. "The car leaves in fifteen minutes. We can't be late for logistics."
