Chapter 2 - The Sister's Shadow
Marisol immediately pulled Lucia behind her skirt, her knuckles white as she squeezed her daughter’s small shoulder.
"I... I apologize, ma'am," Marisol stammered, keeping her eyes fixed respectfully on the floor. "My shift is ending. The child wandered in... I was just retrieving her."
Francesca Kant turned slowly. She was holding a thin silver pen between her manicured fingers. She did not look like a woman mourning her brother; she looked like an executive reviewing a balance sheet that refused to balance.
"The guards outside told me a maid’s child has been sneaking into this room for two weeks," Francesca said. She took two slow steps forward. The heels of her Italian leather shoes clicked sharply against the marble floor. "They thought it was sweet. They thought it was harmless."
Francesca stopped three feet away from Marisol. She leaned down slightly, her dark eyes locking onto Lucia, who peeked out from behind Marisol’s apron with wide, unblinking eyes.
"What is your name, little girl?" Francesca asked. The tone was soft, but the edge underneath was sharp enough to draw blood.
"Lucia," the girl answered clearly, before Marisol could stop her.
"Lucia," Francesca repeated, rolling the syllables over her tongue as if testing their weight. "And why do you come in here, Lucia? This is not a playground."
"He likes my song," Lucia said simply, holding up her crumpled drawing of the sun. "And his hand is cold. I hold it so he isn't scared."
Francesca’s lips thinned into a pale line. She straightened up and looked at Marisol. The cold indifference in her expression shifted into something far more dangerous: acute scrutiny.
"Your daughter has spent more time beside my brother this week than his own captains," Francesca said quietly. "The head of neurosurgery called me an hour ago. He said Daario’s cortical activity spiked yesterday afternoon during your shift. He called it an anomaly."
"I... I know nothing about medical things, ma'am," Marisol said, her voice trembling. "We will leave. I will submit my resignation to the head of building services tonight. You will never see us again."
"Resignation?" Francesca tilted her head. "Why so eager to run away, Marisol? That is your name, isn't it? Marisol Sandoval."
Marisol’s blood ran cold. Francesca already knew her name. In the world of the Kant family, when they knew your name, they knew your address, your bank account, your history, and your vulnerabilities.
"I just... I don't want any trouble, ma'am," Marisol pleaded softly.
"Trouble is already here," Francesca said, walking back toward the bed where Daario lay, motionless, connected to the pulsing tubes and monitors. "My brother’s lieutenants are demanding a vote of succession on Friday. They want to declare him permanently incapacitated. If Daario does not open his eyes before noon on Friday, I lose control of the board, the ports, and the family enterprise."
Francesca turned back, her eyes narrowing as she studied Marisol’s face. "And if I lose control, the men who taking over will clean house. Starting with everyone who ever entered this room."
Francesca’s gaze dropped to the floor, where the faded photograph Marisol had handled yesterday was now neatly tucked back into the leather binder on the nightstand. But Francesca’s sharp eyes caught something else—a loose piece of paper sitting beside it.
It was Lucia’s old drawing from three days ago, left on the corner of the table.
Francesca picked it up. On the bottom corner, Lucia had drawn a tiny, crude picture of herself sleeping under a yellow blanket with little green spots for flowers.
Francesca’s breath hitched. It was barely perceptible—a slight tightening of her throat, a microscopic widen of her eyes—but Marisol saw it.
Francesca looked up from the drawing, her gaze moving slowly from the yellow blanket in the crayon picture, to Lucia’s face, and finally to Marisol.
The air in Room 412 suddenly felt heavy enough to suffocate.
"Where did you get her?" Francesca whispered. The cold executive tone was gone, replaced by a dark, dangerous intensity.
"She is my daughter," Marisol said fiercely, stepping fully in front of Lucia.
"She has Clara’s eyes," Francesca said, her voice dropping into a harsh register. She took three fast steps forward, grabbing Marisol’s forearm with an iron grip. "Clara vanished six years ago with a child Daario never knew existed. We searched every city on the coast. We thought the rival syndicates killed her."
"I don't know who Clara is!" Marisol lied, her voice rising in panic. "I gave birth to her! Leave us alone!"
"Lie to me again, and you won't make it to the elevator," Francesca hissed, her grip tightening until Marisol’s bones throbbed. "The blanket. The yellow blanket with the buttercups. My mother embroidered that for Clara’s baby before Clara ran away. Where is it?"
Before Marisol could answer, a low, wet rasping sound echoed from the bed.
Both women froze.
The steady, monotonous beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor suddenly accelerated. Beep-beep-beep-beep.
On the bed, Daario Kant’s chest heaved. His broad shoulders tensed against the white sheets. His head turned slowly on the pillow, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped beneath his scarred skin.
Lucia broke free from Marisol’s grip. She ran straight to the side of the bed, reached over the steel rail, and grabbed Daario’s large, calloused hand in both of her small ones.
"Mister Daario," Lucia sang out, her small voice trembling with urgency. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine..."
Daario’s eyelids fluttered.
The machine began to chime an irregular alert. The line on the EEG monitor, flat for three solid weeks, spiked into jagged, violent waves.
Francesca let go of Marisol’s arm, staring at her brother in absolute, stunned silence.
Daario’s fingers didn't just twitch this time. His massive hand closed around Lucia’s tiny fingers, gripping her with a protective, instinctive force.
Then, slowly, heavily, like iron doors grinding open after years of rust, Daario Kant opened his eyes.
May you like
They were bloodshot, dark, and wild with confusion. He didn't look at his sister. He didn't look at the ceiling.
His dark eyes rolled sideways, focusing entirely on the tiny six-year-old girl standing beside his bed, holding his hand, and singing into the quiet room.
