Chapter 2 - The Echoes Of An Empty House
The next three days were a living nightmare. Without Marisol, the estate instantly regressed into a terrifying echo chamber of grief. The boys refused to leave their rooms during the day. At night, the screaming returned. It was worse than before. They had tasted peace, they had felt safe, and I had ripped it away from them in a fit of blind, arrogant rage. I paced the floor of my home office, listening to Elian wailing on the second floor. My security chief, Victor, stood in the corner, holding a file. "Boss," Victor said carefully, "we can call another agency. There are hundreds of premium nannies in the city." "No," I snapped, pouring myself a glass of whiskey. "You know how that goes. They run away. They can't handle it." "She handled it," Victor noted quietly. I glared at him, but I knew he was right. "Did you look into her?" I asked, pointing to the file. "Marisol Bennett. I want to know how a twenty-six-year-old woman with a basic resume managed to do what an army of child psychologists couldn't." Victor opened the file. "It's not in her resume, Julian. It's in her background." He handed me the papers. I scanned the pages, my eyes catching on police reports and hospital records. "She grew up in the South Bronx," Victor explained. "Rough neighborhood. Five years ago, her younger sister was caught in the crossfire of a gang shootout. Survived, but was deeply traumatized. Wouldn't speak. Wouldn't sleep." I looked up from the file. "Marisol dropped out of college," Victor continued. "She spent three years doing nothing but rehabilitating her sister. Working odd jobs, staying up every night, learning exactly how to handle severe PTSD in children. She didn't learn this in a classroom, boss. She lived it." The whiskey tasted like ash in my mouth. She understood what children didn't say, because she had spent years listening to the silence of her own broken sister. And I had treated her like a criminal for comforting my sons. Upstairs, a glass shattered. Leo was throwing a tantrum, screaming that he wanted Marisol back. My vast criminal empire meant absolutely nothing. I could order hits, I could buy politicians, I could shut down city blocks. But I could not stop my children from breaking into a million pieces. I closed the file and slammed it on my mahogany desk. "Get the car ready," I told Victor. He raised an eyebrow. "Where are we going at this hour? We have the sit-down with the Moretti family tomorrow." "Cancel it," I growled, grabbing my coat. "Cancel a mafia summit?" Victor asked, shocked. "Julian, that will show weakness. They'll think we're backing down." "I don't care what they think," I said, walking toward the door. "I'm going to Queens. I have to find a nanny." I walked out into the cold New York night, knowing I was about to do something I had never done in my entire life. I was going to beg for forgiveness.
