Chapter 2 - an impossible touch
The rain had settled into a steady mist by nine o’clock that night. Inside the penthouse office, the amber glow of a desk lamp cut through the shadows. Dominic sat behind the mahogany desk, a glass of untouched bourbon sweating on a crystal coaster beside him.
On the large wall-mounted monitor, the security footage from earlier that afternoon played on a silent, continuous loop.
On screen, Savannah Reeves knelt on the rug. The rabbit was laid down. Leo reached out. Leo touched it. Leo smiled.
Every time the boy’s lips curved upward on the high-definition monitor, Dominic’s throat tightened. He had replayed the five-second clip at least fifty times.
The door clicked open, and Frankie stepped in, carrying a thin manila folder under his arm. He closed the door behind him and tossed the folder onto the blotter in front of Dominic.
"Everything on her," Frankie said, leaning against the edge of the desk. "Savannah Marie Reeves. Twenty-seven. Born in upstate New York, moved to the city five years ago. No criminal record, no debt, no associations with Vance, the Marconis, or anyone in the five boroughs. Clean as fresh linen."
Dominic opened the file. His blue eyes scanned the documents. Employment history: three years at the Elysian, spotless record, consistently rated highest in discretion and reliability by VIP guests.
Then his eyes stopped on a photograph clipped to the third page.
It was an older snapshot taken outdoors at a county fair. A younger Savannah, maybe nineteen or twenty, stood with her arms wrapped around a frail, smiling boy of about twelve. The boy in the picture was clinging tightly to a plush hound dog, his shoulders curved inward in a familiar, defensive posture.
"Her younger brother," Frankie said softly, pointing a thick finger at the photo. "Toby. Diagnosed with severe autism and selective mutism when he was five. Their parents died in a car wreck when Savannah was eighteen. She raised the boy alone. Paid for his specialized care out of pocket by working three jobs. He passed away eighteen months ago from leukemia."
Dominic’s fingers tightened on the edge of the paper. "She knows how Leo feels."
"She lived it for almost ten years, boss," Frankie nodded. "She wasn't using a trick. She was just talking the only language the kid understands."
Before Dominic could speak, the small security monitor on the desk chimed with a gentle notification. The camera feed switched automatically to the forty-seventh floor’s private elevator vestibule.
Savannah Reeves had just clocked out. She had changed into a modest cream cable-knit sweater, dark jeans, and simple flats, carrying a small canvas tote over her shoulder. She walked toward the elevator call button and pressed it.
Dominic watched the screen, his mind turning over a dozen strategies, when movement in the corner of the camera frame caught his attention.
The heavy double doors of the penthouse suite cracked open.
A small figure in pale pink pajamas slipped out into the empty hallway, completely barefoot.
Dominic pushed back his chair so hard it struck the wood paneling behind him. "Frankie."
On the monitor, Leo was walking quietly along the runner, his steps silent. He was clutching the white towel rabbit against his chest with both hands.
Savannah stood waiting for the lift, watching the illuminated numbers tick down from fifty. She heard no footfalls on the thick carpet, but something—some instinct honed through years of vigilance—made her glance over her shoulder.
She froze.
Leo stood three feet away from her. His messy brown hair fell softly over his forehead, and his wide hazel eyes looked straight up into hers.
Savannah did not move. She did not kneel too fast. She did not reach out. She simply softened her posture, letting her tote bag slide slowly down her arm until it rested on the carpet, keeping herself still and non-threatening.
"Hello, Leo," she whispered, her voice like warm silk in the cold corridor.
The elevator doors pinged, sliding open to reveal an empty car. Neither of them looked at it.
Leo took one small step forward. Then another. He looked down at the towel rabbit, looked back up at Savannah’s gentle face, and then, with agonizing slowness, extended his small, pale hand.
He didn't grab her sleeve. He slid his little fingers directly into the palm of Savannah’s open hand.
Savannah’s breath hitched. She gently, carefully curled her fingers around his, offering just enough warmth to let him know he was held, but not enough pressure to make him feel trapped.
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In the office, Dominic leaned over the desk, his hands planted flat on the wood, staring at the monitor with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"Frankie," Dominic commanded, his voice thick with an emotion he had not permitted himself to feel in a decade. "Bring her back in."
