I hated feeling trapped then, and I hate it now.
The constant scrutiny puts my nerves on edge. The knowledge that my every move will be watched and reported to Basili causes anxiety to rise in my chest. But I force myself to keep a neutral face, focusing instead on Emmanuel.
“I’ll take Emmanuel up to his room,” Basili says. “Chloe, come with us. I’ll show you to your room as well.”
His tone says this is not a request. It’s an order.
With a deep breath, I push my irritation back down. Now isn’t the time to make open objections to being ordered about. Instead, I follow him up the left staircase, Maria rustling around behind us, promising to have dinner ready in an hour.
The second floor is just as impressive as the first — long, wide hallways with marble tile floors that echo our footsteps, artwork, and sculptures in small alcoves that must have cost a fortune. We pass several doors that I assume lead to bedrooms, offices, or sitting rooms.
Basili leads me, down, further down the hallway, and we pass two more guards at an intersection. The door just beyond the two steel-faced figures is decorated with a hand painting that reads “Emmanuel’s Kingdom” in colorful medieval-style lettering.
He pushes the door open for Emmanuel to enter, and I stop breathing as I step into the room.
I’ve seen children’s rooms before. This, though, this is something else entirely. The room is massive, easily three times the size of the boys' dormitory where Emmanuel stayed at the orphanage. But what makes it so extraordinary isn’t the size — it’s the obvious thought that went into every corner of it.
One entire wall is taken over by a centerpiece built into an elaborate castle structure, complete with turrets and crenellations. It even has a working drawbridge that serves as stairs leading up to the mattress. The stonework is painted to look aged and textured with faux ivy climbing up one side, anda dragon — scales glittering, wings spread wide — hovering protectively overhead as if guarding whoever sleeps within.
As impressive as the building is, it’s the walls that take my breath away.
They’re covered in hand-painted murals depicting scenes from a children’s movie I vaguely recognize. A brave young woman with a sword, a stable boy following close at hand with a two-headed purple dragon in a magical forest. The artwork is gorgeous, professional quality, each scene flowing seamlessly into the next with stunning detail and color.
Emmanuel immediately runs to his castle bed, climbing up the drawbridge steps with enthusiasm, disappearing within the huge stage set. Stepping closer, I can see that the interior is cozy, with pillows and blankets and strips of lights throughout.
When he emerges next higher up on one of the turrets, he waves at me frantically. Signing, “Come see!”
I move on autopilot, following his direction as he shows me through the playhouse — if you could call it that. Sitting within one of the alcoves that has a soft mat and numerous pillows, he signs rapidly, excited to show me everything.
“Papa built it. With a little help. After I watched that movie about the princess finding Camelot. It’s my favorite. He said every prince needs a castle. See him —” He points to the dragon overhead. “He is supposed to be scary, but Papa says he is a nice dragon.”
My vision blurs, and I realize tears are forming in my eyes. Blinking rapidly, I hold them back.What a sweet thing to do for your child… I can’t believe all this.
Basili built this. The stoic, guarded Don of the Italian crime family —the same one who had kissed me and then threatened my life — had taken the time to build this for his son. He’d followed the boy’s interests enough to know what it would mean to him and made it a reality.
I turn to look at Basili, who’s standing beside the doorway watching us with an expression I can’t quite decipher. There’s pride there, but something more — a deep sadness. A longing perhaps.
“It’s beautiful,” I sign to Emmanuel, turning my attention back to him. Then, out loud for Basili’s benefit, I say, “It’s the most amazing room I’ve ever seen. You’re very loved, Emmanuel.”
Emmanuel beams, grabbing my hand once more to show me to his toy chest—— an elaborately carved wooden piece decorated with more of the same characters from the movie. He then proceeds to pull out action figures, books, and much more. All the treasures of childhood carefully preserved exactly where he had left them.
For the first time since he’d shown up at the orphanage, Emmanuel looks like any other child. Not a traumatized victim or a puzzle to be solved, just a nine-year-old boy excited to show off his favorite things.
I look around myself again as he continues to pull things from the chest. My mind is still reeling at what I’m seeing. Despite everything — the guards, the guns, the threats — Basili is just a father who loves his son deeply enough to build him a castle. A safe haven.
That’s when it hits me, a question I hadn’t yet asked myself.Where is Emmanuel’s mother?
With a new eye of scrutiny, I look around the room, then contemplate the rest of what I’d seen of the house. There had been no sign of a lady of the mansion. A mother would have been there to greet her child, especially if that child had been taken from her…
Deep in my gut, I feel the answer to my own question:She’s dead.I don’t know how I know, but I know. Blinking back a tear with that unspoken truth, I glance at Basili again. This time, with an entirely new appreciation for his desperate need to have his son home safe and sound.
Maybe I’ve been too harsh on him. Maybe —
“Chloe.”
My name on his lips pulls me from my thoughts. His tone is formal, distant. And I can’t help it, I don’t like it. The momentary glimpse of a loving, dutiful father was replaced once more by the mask of the Don.
“Come, I’ll show you to your room. We don’t have much time before dinner, and you need to clean up.”
