Chapter 6 - The Sovereign Reunion
The front doors of the grand manor swung inward before Ava reached the final step of the portico.
She burst into the cavernous, chandelier-lit foyer, her wet clothes dripping freezing slush onto the polished black-and-white marble, her chest heaving in ragged, desperate gasps.
Standing in the center of the hall was Salvatore.
He wore a tailored dark suit, his broad shoulders squared, his slate-gray eyes watching her with a look of profound, breathtaking awe.
Ava lunged forward, her fingers clawing at his lapels, her face inches from his, her voice shaking with wild, homicidal fury.
"Where is she, Salvatore?! Where is my daughter?! If you laid one finger on her, if you hurt her—"
"Mama?"
A tiny, clear voice floated down from the top of the grand marble staircase.
Ava froze.
Her hands slipped from Salvatore’s lapels. The world stopped spinning. The air left her lungs in a single, shattered gasp.
Standing on the third stair, holding the hand of Dr. Marcus Thorne, was Emmy.
She was clean. Her dark curls were brushed, cascading softly around her shoulders; she was wearing soft flannel pajamas and fuzzy wool slippers; and in her small arms, she clutched her one-eared rabbit against her chest.
"Emmy...?" Ava whispered, the word barely a breath.
The little girl’s hazel eyes went wide as saucers.
"MAMA!"
Emmy let go of the doctor's hand and sprinted down the stairs, her small slippers flying across the marble.
Ava dropped to both knees on the cold stone floor, opening her arms wide.
The impact was concussive.
Emmy slammed into her chest, her small arms wrapping around Ava’s neck with an iron, unbreakable grip, burying her face into Ava’s wet collar, sobbing with pure, unadulterated, five-year-old terror and relief.
"Mama! You came! You found me! The bad boys took my shoes, but the big man gave me soup!"
Ava collapsed against the marble floor, wrapping her entire body around her daughter, kissing her wet curls, her forehead, her cheeks, her neck, weeping great, racking sobs of sweet, crystalline agony that washed away five years of prison darkness.
"I have you, baby," Ava wept into her daughter’s hair, her shoulders heaving violently. "Mama has you. I will never let you go again. Never. Never."
Standing five feet away, Salvatore Castiglione watched them.
The ruthless mafia boss who had executed three cartels without blinking wiped a single, silent tear from his scarred cheek with the back of his leather-gloved hand.
He looked down at Dr. Thorne, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register that made the chandelier crystals hum:
"Marcus."
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"Yes, Boss?"
"Call the district attorney. Call the chief of detectives. And bring Victoria Harper to my warehouse in Red Hook before sunrise."
