Chapter 1 - The Wooden Soldier
Salvatore stared down at the small wooden soldier resting on his lap.
He could not feel the weight of the toy against his legs, but the gesture landed heavily on his chest.
The boy, Milo, stood perfectly still, his large brown eyes watching Salvatore with innocent expectation.
He had given away his most precious possession to a man everyone else treated like a loaded gun.
"Milo!" a terrified voice gasped from the hallway.
Nadia rushed into the office, her face entirely drained of color.
She dropped to her knees beside the boy, pulling him desperately against her chest.
"I am so sorry, Mr. Ferraro," she pleaded, her voice shaking violently.
"He slipped away while I was changing the mop water."
She reached out with a trembling hand to retrieve the wooden soldier from Salvatore's lap.
Salvatore's massive hand shot out and clamped down on her thin wrist.
Nadia flinched, bracing herself for the violent temper she had undoubtedly been warned about.
But Salvatore did not yell.
He looked at the boy, then at the terrified mother.
"He does not speak," Salvatore observed softly, releasing her wrist.
Nadia pulled her hand back, wrapping both arms securely around her son.
"No, sir," she whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor.
"He has not spoken since my husband was killed two years ago."
The room grew suddenly quiet, the rain drumming a slow, steady rhythm against the glass.
Salvatore picked up the chipped wooden soldier, turning it over in his rough hands.
He had built an empire on violence, but this small, broken toy felt heavier than any weapon.
"Take him," Salvatore commanded quietly.
"And make sure he does not wander again."
Nadia scooped Milo into her arms, bowing her head repeatedly in gratitude.
"Thank you, Mr. Ferraro, it will never happen again."
She practically ran out of the office, closing the heavy oak door securely behind her.
Salvatore placed the wooden soldier on the corner of his mahogany desk.
He rolled his wheelchair back toward the window, looking out at the gray, miserable afternoon.
For the first time in months, his mind was not entirely consumed by his own bitter tragedy.
He was thinking about a silent boy and a mother who looked like she was running from ghosts.
An hour later, the sharp ring of his private phone shattered the silence.
It was Gianni, his ambitious younger cousin who had taken over the day-to-day operations.
"Salvatore," Gianni greeted, his voice unnaturally loud and cheerful.
"I have some concerning news about the new shipments coming through the docks."
Salvatore gripped the armrests of his wheelchair.
"What kind of news?"
"Someone hit the south warehouse last night," Gianni explained.
"They took three million in cash and burned the rest."
Salvatore's jaw tightened dangerously.
"Who did it?"
Gianni paused for a fraction of a second too long.
"The word on the street is that Aldo Bianchi ordered the hit."
Aldo was the man who had put Salvatore in this wheelchair.
"Find him," Salvatore growled, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
"And when you do, bring him to the basement of this house."
Gianni hesitated.
"Are you sure you are up for that, Cousin?"
"Perhaps I should handle Aldo myself."
Salvatore closed his eyes, hearing the barely concealed disrespect in Gianni's tone.
"Do exactly as I ordered, Gianni, or I will put you in the basement next to him."
He hung up the phone aggressively.
He turned his wheelchair to face the desk, intending to review the security files.
He stopped completely cold.
The wooden soldier was gone.
In its place sat a small, perfectly folded note made of thick, expensive stationery.
Salvatore unfolded the paper with a deep frown.
May you like
The message was written in elegant, flowing cursive that definitely did not belong to a child.
It read, "Gianni is lying to you; Aldo is not the traitor."
