Chapter 2 - Cold Eyes, Warm Pancakes, and The Five-Year-Old Boy Who Guarded The Hallway
At 6:30 AM, the estate was cloaked in heavy gray fog.
Norah woke up in the expansive third-floor guest suite. The bed was softer than anything she had ever slept on, but she hadn't slept more than four hours.
Her mind was running equations.
Risk versus reward. Freedom versus danger.
She dressed in a clean navy sweater, dark trousers, and tied her thick chestnut hair into a neat knot.
When she walked down the grand spiraling staircase, the ground floor was silent except for the low hum of industrial refrigerators in the vast commercial-grade kitchen.
Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper who had worked for the Castellano family for thirty years, was nervously measuring flour.
“Good morning,” Norah said gently.
The older woman jumped. “Oh! Miss Bennett. Mr. Castellano left orders that you are not to do any chores until the contract is—”
“Is Leo awake yet?”
“He woke up an hour ago. He won't leave his room. He never comes down for breakfast.”
Norah smiled faintly. “Do you mind if I make something?”
Twenty minutes later, the smell of melted butter, vanilla bean, and cinnamon filled the stone corridors.
Norah walked up to the second floor carrying a small wooden tray. On it was a stack of golden, fluffy buttermilk pancakes topped with sliced strawberries arranged in the shape of a lightning bolt.
She stopped outside Leo’s bedroom door.
The door was cracked open by exactly two inches.
Inside, sitting on a small wooden stool with his arms crossed and wearing an oversized hoodie, was Leo. He was staring at the hallway like a tiny, vigilant soldier holding the perimeter.
Norah sat down directly on the polished hardwood floor outside his door.
She set the tray beside her.
She picked up a pancake with her fingers and took a slow, deliberate bite.
“Mm. Terrible,” Norah said out loud to the empty hallway. “Far too much cinnamon. The Captain definitely wouldn't want these.”
A small shoe appeared in the doorway.
Leo stood there, glaring at the strawberries.
“My mom used to make lightning strawberries,” the boy whispered. It was the first time anyone in the house had heard him speak about his mother in months.
Norah didn't look up with pity. She kept her voice matter-of-fact.
“Your mom had good taste. Want the other half of the storm?”
Leo took two steps forward, grabbed the plate, and sat down on the floor right beside her.
He ate in complete silence.
Down the hallway, leaning against the archway in a bespoke charcoal suit, stood Luca Castellano.
He watched the curvy woman sitting cross-legged on his floor, wearing an ordinary sweater, talking to the boy who hadn't spoken more than ten words to anyone since his mother's funeral.
When Leo finished the last strawberry, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Are you leaving on the train today?” Leo asked quietly, staring at his sneakers.
Norah looked down at the boy. She saw the familiar terror of abandonment in his wide, dark eyes—the exact terror she had felt when Sebastian had told her she was worthless.
Norah reached out and gently straightened the collar of his hoodie.
“No, Leo,” Norah said firmly. “I’m not getting on that train.”
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She looked down the hall and met Luca’s steel-gray eyes.
“Where is the pen, Mr. Castellano?”
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