Chapter 2 - The Midnight Ghost on Delancey: Inside the Iron Gates of Saint Anne’s
The black Bentley purred through the slush-rimmed streets of the Lower East Side like an armored panther. Julian had not spoken a single word since we left the garage beneath the penthouse. He sat in the back seat between me and Ivy, who had fallen asleep with her face pressed against my shoulder, her small fist clutching her stuffed rabbit. Julian stared straight ahead at the glass partition separating us from the driver, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched near his temple.
Saint Anne’s Children’s Home was not one of those modern, glossy non-profit shelters with welcoming glass facades and brightly colored murals. It was an imposing, fortress-like Victorian limestone structure squeezed between two modern luxury high-rises—a stubborn historical relic that refused to be bought out or torn down. Iron spikes ringed the perimeter wall, and heavy oak double doors stood beneath a carved stone archway bearing a faded Latin inscription.
“Mr. Hail,” I whispered as the car glided to a halt beside the curb. “It’s past ten o’clock. They won’t let visitors in. Especially not a child.”
Julian turned his head slowly. In the dim amber glow of the streetlamps outside, his eyes looked dark, sharp, and entirely unyielding. “They will let us in, Elena.”
He stepped out into the freezing December air, not waiting for the chauffeur to open his door. He walked up the stone steps of Saint Anne’s and pressed his thumb hard against an old-fashioned brass push-button buzzer. A harsh, electric ring echoed from somewhere deep inside the cavernous building.
Minutes passed. I bundled Ivy tighter into her woolen blanket, my heart hammering against my ribs. What was Julian doing here? Saint Anne’s was a municipal-backed ward for emergency child placements and state wards. It was a place where children ended up when the system had completely failed them—or when wealthy families paid large sums to quietly drop inconvenient bloodlines out of sight.
Finally, a heavy bolt slid back with a metallic screech. The door creaked open a few inches, revealing the tired, suspicious face of an elderly night matron wearing a thick gray cardigan over a nun-style tunic.
“We are closed,” the woman said flatly, her gaze sweeping past Julian to land on the expensive car idling at the curb. “Visiting hours ended at five. Come back tomorrow morning.”
Julian did not move an inch. He simply reached into his overcoat pocket, pulled out a heavy black leather cardholder, and slid a single card through the narrow gap in the door.
The matron looked down. She didn’t even need to read it. One look at the embossed silver crest of Hail Group seemed to drain the remaining color from her wrinkled cheeks.
“Mr... Mr. Hail?” she stammered, her hands trembling as she pulled the door wide open. “We weren’t expecting—we didn’t know you had any affiliation with—”
“I don’t,” Julian interrupted, his voice cold enough to freeze water. “I am here for Toby.”
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The matron blinked, visibly confused. “Toby? Master Thomas? But he’s scheduled for transfer at six o'clock tomorrow morning. The state placement officers already processed the paperwork. He’s going upstate to the foster consortium in Westchester.”
Julian stepped across the threshold, bringing a rush of freezing wind into the dimly lit foyer. “Not anymore he isn't. Take me to him right now.”
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