Chapter 3: An Unfamiliar Roof
The penthouse atop the Cane Tower was built of smoked glass, brushed steel, and ruthless silence. For five years, it had served as Vincent Cane’s fortress—a place where deals were struck and rivals were broken. Tonight, it smelled like warm chicken soup and buttered toast.
Declan stood by the kitchen island, nervously watching Lily sit at the high marble breakfast counter. Her small legs swung back and forth as she ate eagerly, dipping toast into a porcelain bowl.
"Easy, kiddo," Declan muttered, his gruff voice softening awkwardly. "There's plenty more. The chef downstairs made enough to feed a precinct."
In the master suite down the hall, the family physician packed his leather satchel. Vincent stood by the window, staring out at the skyline.
"Severe malnutrition, chronic exhaustion, early-stage pneumonia," Dr. Mercer said quietly. "She’s been starving herself to feed the girl for months, Vincent. Her body gave up because her mind finally ran out of options."
"Can she recover?"
"With clean food, rest, and antibiotics, yes. But she needs peace. Real peace. Not the kind you negotiate with wiretaps and iron."
Vincent handed the doctor a thick envelope and walked back into the living room. Clara was lying propped up on the leather sofa, a heavy cashmere blanket pulled to her chin. Lily had abandoned her soup and curled up beside her mother’s feet, already fast asleep.
"Why didn't you find me sooner?" Vincent asked, pulling up a chair.
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"Because the man I loved wasn't a crime boss," Clara whispered, looking at the city lights below. "And I didn't want my daughter raised in a cage."
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