Chapter 6 - The Ghost in the NurseryMoving the children into my penthouse wasn't simple.
My home was a sprawling, ultra-modern fortress on the top floor of a downtown skyscraper, designed for surveillance, security, and absolute isolation. It was filled with art that cost more than houses, minimalist furniture, and an ominous silence.
Now, it looked like a daycare exploded.
Toys littered the Italian marble floors. A pink, plastic princess castle sat right beside a priceless bronze sculpture from the Renaissance. Maya had already claimed the massive floor-to-ceiling window in the living room as her personal observation deck, pressing her nose against the glass to watch the tiny cars crawl far below.
Leo was in the master guest suite, which I had gutted and converted into a child-friendly recovery room within forty-eight hours. His leg was in a fresh, heavy cast, propped up on a stack of silk pillows.
I walked in carrying a tray with chicken soup and apple slices.
He was awake, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“How’s the leg?” I asked, setting the tray on the bedside table and pulling up a chair.
Leo didn't answer right away. He slowly turned his head, his dark eyes hollow. The surgery had taken a toll on him; his skin was pale, and he looked smaller than ever in the oversized cotton pajamas I had bought him.
“It hurts,” he whispered. “Like someone’s hitting it with a hammer.”
I reached out and gently adjusted his blanket. “The doctor said that’s normal for the first few days. I’ve got strong painkillers, but if you don't like the taste, we can mix them into apple juice.”
Leo stared at my hands—specifically at the scarred knuckles and the heavy gold watch on my wrist.
“Uncle Thomas?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Are we safe here?”
The question hit me harder than a physical blow. It was the third time he’d asked it since we left the hospital. Trauma leaves deep grooves in a child’s mind; you can’t just wipe away months of terror with a penthouse view and a stack of toys.
“Look at me, Leo,” I said firmly, waiting until his eyes locked onto mine. “Do you see those guards downstairs? Do you see the cameras in the hallway?”
He nodded slightly.
“Nobody gets in here unless I say so. Not the police, not social workers, not even the president of the United States. If anyone tries to hurt you or Maya, they have to go through me first. And nobody gets past me.”
For the first time in days, a tiny fraction of the tension left his shoulders. He let out a shaky breath and reached out, grabbing my thumb with his small hand.
“Promise?”
“I promise,” I said.
Just then, the door burst open, and Maya trotted in wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses she had found in my foyer, dragging a stuffed unicorn behind her.
“Uncle Tom!” she announced cheerfully. “I made a tower!”
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Leo let out a sudden, genuine giggle—the first one I had heard since I pulled them from that porch. I looked between the two of them, feeling a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest.
Ethan wanted them kept away from my world. But my world was the only thing standing between them and the grave.
