Chapter 4 - THE WEST WING GUEST SUITE
The west wing guest suite was a sprawling room decorated in deep charcoals, silvers, and rich mahogany—a room usually reserved for visiting heads of state or high-ranking syndicate partners who came to pay homage to the Chicago boss. It had never seen a sick housekeeper, let alone a mother and child from the lowest rung of the estate hierarchy.
Adrien laid Clara down gently on the massive king-sized mattress, watching as the pristine white goose-down pillows seemed to swallow her small frame. Dr. Vance followed close behind, wheeling in his portable IV stand and immediately securing a catheter into the vein of Clara's bruised arm. Within moments, the cool, clear saline solution mixed with broad-spectrum antibiotics began to flow into her system.
Lily stood near the edge of the bed, her chin barely reaching the mattress line. Her large eyes darted around the luxurious room, taking in the crystal lamps, the heavy velvet drapes, and the sheer expanse of the bed.
"She's going to be okay, little one," Adrien said, kneeling beside her. His voice was uncharacteristically gentle, a tone that none of his capos or enemies would have ever believed he possessed.
Lily looked up at him, her lower lip trembling. "Is Mama going to sleep forever?"
"No," Adrien said firmly, placing a large, warm hand gently on her messy dark hair. "She's just resting. The doctor is giving her medicine to make the fire in her chest go away."
Lily sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her already stained sleeve. "I made your shoes dirty. I wanted to help her."
Adrien felt a strange, unfamiliar ache behind his sternum. He reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a pristine white linen handkerchief—bought at a high-end boutique in Manhattan just two days ago—and gently took Lily's small, blackened hand. He began to wipe the dried black shoe polish from her skin, stroke by careful stroke, until the soft brown skin of her hands was clean again.
"You did a very brave thing, Lily," Adrien said quietly, looking directly into her wide, intelligent eyes. "But you shouldn't have had to do it alone. That ends tonight."
The door to the suite clicked open, and Viktor Vance walked back in, holding a small paper cup of warm water and a pediatric electrolyte packet. "I've called nurse Henderson. She'll be here by 4:00 AM to take over the night watch. As for the child—she needs food. She's severely undernourished, Mr. Romano. Look at her ribs."
Adrien looked down. Now that Lily wasn't swallowed by the shadows of the shoe room, he could see the faint outline of her ribs beneath her oversized, threadbare cotton dress. The realization hit him like a physical blow. Under his roof, in an estate that spent more on imported wine in a week than most families earned in a year, a three-year-old child was starving.
"Vance," Adrien said, standing up to his full, imposing height. "Get the kitchen staff up. Now."
Ten minutes later, the massive, state-of-the-art industrial kitchen of the Romano mansion—usually dead silent at 2:00 AM—was ablaze with light. Head Chef Bernard, roused from his bed in a panic and still wearing his apron over his pajamas, stood trembling before the boss of the Chicago underworld.
"Mr. Romano! I... I didn't know you were back. We were prepared for Thursday—" Bernard stammered, wringing his hands.
"Silence, Bernard," Adrien said coldly, his eyes like chips of blue ice. "A child in the west wing has not been fed properly. I want a warm, nutrient-dense meal prepared immediately. Broth, soft chicken, buttered rice, and warm milk with honey. And I want it brought up in ten minutes."
"Y-yes, sir! Right away, sir!" Bernard scrambled toward the stove, shouting orders at his terrified sous-chefs who had been dragged out of their quarters.
Adrien stood watching them for a moment, then looked down at Lily, who was sitting on a high stool by the marble island, swinging her legs back and forth. She was clutching her teddy bear, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.
"Are you hungry, Lily?" he asked.
May you like
She nodded sleepily. "Can I have bread with sugar?"
A faint, ghost of a smile touched the corner of Adrien's mouth—the first genuine expression of amusement he had shown in years. "You can have whatever you want."
