Chapter 11 - The Boy with the Duct-Taped Shoes
The morning sun crested the Atlanta skyline as my Suburban rolled back through the iron gates of the estate.
The smell of wet earth and gun smoke clung to my overcoat, but the violent storm in my chest had finally begun to settle.
Before I could walk up the limestone stairs to Lila’s room, Marcus emerged from the gatehouse, his radio clipped to his vest.
“Vincent,” he called out quietly, walking toward my side of the car.
“What is it?” I asked, pausing with one hand on the open vehicle door.
“Two of our patrol units found the boy about an hour ago,” Marcus replied, gesturing toward the guard post.
“He was sleeping behind an abandoned dry cleaner’s dumpster on Boulevard, shivering through that wet cotton shirt.”
“Did you bring him inside?”
“Brought him straight here, boss.”
“Fed him two hot breakfast plates and gave him dry clothes from the staff quarters.”
“He’s sitting in the secondary security office right now, terrified you’re going to put him in a shallow ditch.”
I closed the car door softly and walked toward the brick outbuilding beside the main gates.
Inside the small, climate-controlled security office, the boy sat on a leather swivel chair, his knees pulled up tightly against his chest.
He was wearing clean navy sweatpants and an oversized grey fleece hoodie that swallowed his slight frame.
On the table beside him sat an empty plate of scrambled eggs, three stripped bacon rinds, and an untouched glass of orange juice.
His dirty canvas shoes with the silver duct tape sat by the radiator, still drying from yesterday’s downpour.
The moment the heavy deadbolt clicked and I stepped across the threshold, the boy’s shoulders locked in pure panic.
He scrambled back into the corner of the leather chair, his hollow cheeks flushing pale with terror.
“I didn’t take anything, Mr. Moretti,” he stammered, his small voice cracking against the wood paneling.
“I swear to God, I didn’t touch none of the silver spoons in the pantry.”
“That lady was lying... I only looked through the glass because the kitten ran under the steps...”
I pulled up a wooden office chair, turned it around, and sat down three feet in front of him.
“What is your name, son?” I asked, keeping my voice softer than anyone in the Atlanta underworld had ever heard it.
The boy swallowed hard, his dark eyes darting between my scarred hands and my face.
“Leo,” he whispered.
“Leo Miller.”
“Where are your parents, Leo?”
The boy looked down at his clean socks, his fingers picking at the fleece threads around his knees.
“My mom died of an overdose at the Grady memorial shelter two winters ago.”
“Never had a dad.”
“Been living with the warehouse loading crews by the rail terminal, sweeping sawdust and hauling scrap pallets for ten bucks a day.”
I looked at the thin, resilient child who had possessed more courage than forty armed lieutenants on my payroll.
He had seen a dangerous mob wife poisoning a little girl and had chosen to walk straight up to the most lethal man in the city.
He hadn't asked for money.
He hadn't demanded a reward.
He had simply refused to let a little girl go blind in the dark.
“You saved my daughter’s life, Leo,” I said, looking him dead in the eyes.
Leo blinked, confusion washing over his pinched face.
“She... she’s gonna see again?”
“The doctors are giving her the medicine right now,” I replied, nodding once.
“Because you didn't look away when you saw that red thermos.”
A single, dirty tear carved a clean trail through the grime on his right cheek, but he wiped it away angrily with his sleeve.
“The lady said she was gonna send the cops to put me in juvenile detention if I opened my mouth.”
“That lady is never going to touch you, Leo,” I said firmly.
“She is never going to speak your name, and she is never stepping foot outside a locked cell for the rest of her natural life.”
I stood up, walked to the desk, and hit the intercom switch to the main house.
“Marcus.”
“Yes, Vincent?”
“Call our family attorney, Davis Vance—not Arthur, his brother across town who handles the clean trust assets.”
“Tell Davis to prepare full legal adoption and guardianship paperwork under my name by noon.”
Leo’s head jerked up, his jaw hanging open as if I had spoken in a foreign language.
“M-Mr. Moretti... what?”
“You’re not sleeping behind dumpsters on Boulevard anymore, Leo,” I said, looking back at him.
“You’re moving into the guest wing on the second floor.”
“You’re getting enrolled in the private preparatory academy on Northside Parkway this September.”
“And as long as Vincent Moretti draws breath in this state, you have a father, a home, and an army at your back.”
Leo sat frozen for three long seconds, looking down at his clean hands, before burying his face in his oversized sleeves and letting out a quiet, trembling sob.
May you like
I rested my hand on the boy’s head, let him cry out two years of street starvation, and turned back toward the main house.
Now it was time to see if the Swiss serum could undo six months of poison in Lila’s blood.
