Chapter 2 - The Face in the Mirror
The kitchen door swung open with a light squeak.
A six-year-old girl in a bright yellow raincoat stepped out from the back storeroom, holding a silver beaded bracelet she had been trying to fix. She had wavy dark hair, small freckles across her nose, and striking, deep dark eyes that commanded the attention of anyone in the room.
"Mommy," the girl called out softly, her small rain boots squeaking against the wet linoleum floor. "I fixed the string like you showed me."
Elena’s heart slammed into her throat.
"Maya, go back inside—" Elena began, her voice cracking slightly.
It was too late.
Damian turned slowly on his stool.
His eyes fell upon the little girl.
The world inside the diner seemed to freeze solid.
Damian looked at Maya’s face, then at her hair, and finally into those deep, intense eyes—the exact shape, color, and piercing intensity of his own eyes staring right back at him.
The coffee mug in Damian's hand rattled against the saucer.
His breathing stopped.
"Elena..." Damian whispered, his voice trembling for the first time in seven years. He stood up slowly, his towering six-foot frame casting a shadow over the counter.
Maya stopped in her tracks, looking up at the imposing stranger in the dark suit. She didn't look afraid; she looked curious, drawn to him by an unspoken, magnetic thread of blood.
"Mommy, who is this man?" Maya asked, stepping closer and wrapping her small arm around Elena’s apron.
Elena threw her hands up over her mouth, tears bursting past her eyelashes as a heavy sob escaped her chest. She pulled Maya tightly against her hip, shielding her daughter with her entire body.
"Please, Damian..." Elena sobbed, her hands shaking violently now. "Please... just take what you came for and leave us alone."
Damian didn't look at his security guards. He didn't look at the customers in the booths who were now staring in stunned silence.
He stepped around the wooden counter, taking two slow, deliberate steps until he was kneeling on the hard linoleum floor directly in front of the child.
May you like
His hands—hands that had built a criminal syndicate, signed million-dollar contracts, and pulled triggers—reached out hesitatingly, stopping inches from Maya’s small yellow raincoat.
"She has my eyes," Damian whispered, a tear slipping down his hardened cheek, cutting a path through the rain on his skin. "Elena... she's six years old."
