Chapter 3 - The Spark in the Dark
The master guest suite in the east wing was larger than Maren’s entire childhood apartment. Warm sunlight poured through grand arching windows, illuminating hardwood floors, plush velvet rugs, and a private balcony overlooking the estate’s immaculate snow-covered gardens.
Nora was currently spinning in circles on the enormous king-sized bed, clutching her stuffed lion, Barnaby, like a tiny golden tornado.
"Mommy! Look! The bed is made of clouds!" Nora giggled, flopping back into the pile of goose-down pillows.
Maren couldn't help but smile, stepping over to smooth her daughter’s messy curls. "It is very soft, sweetie. But remember what we talked about? We are here to help Aria. She is very sick, and she needs us to be gentle, kind, and quiet when she rests."
Nora sat up, her big hazel eyes round with solemn understanding. "Aria’s tummy hurts. She told Barnaby."
Maren paused, kneeling beside the bed. "She spoke to Barnaby?"
Nora nodded emphatically. "She whispered it. She said the bitter tea makes her tummy feel like fire."
Maren’s nurse instincts flared instantly. Bitter tea?
Leaving Nora under the watchful, surprisingly gentle eye of Leo Russo—Damian’s chief of security, who had proven to be a soft-spoken giant despite the concealed firearm under his jacket—Maren walked down the carpeted hallway toward Aria’s room.
The heavy mahogany door was slightly open.
Inside, the room was dimly lit. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the afternoon sun, keeping the space in an artificial twilight. Medical monitors hummed softly in the corner, tracking Aria’s heart rate and oxygen levels.
Aria was propped up against a mountain of white pillows. She looked impossibly small—her skin translucent, dark circles under her large brown eyes, her silver-framed glasses resting on the bedside table.
Standing beside her was Dr. Robert Vance, the private physician retained by Victor Kane to oversee Aria’s daily regimen. He was holding a silver tray with a small glass cup filled with a dark, murky brown herbal infusion.
"Come now, Miss Aria," Dr. Vance said, his voice forced and sickly sweet. "Just three swallows. Your father wants you to drink your special tonics so you can get stronger."
Aria turned her head away, her tiny lips pressed tightly together. She looked terrified, her small hands clutching the bedsheets.
"Doctor Vance," Maren said smoothly, stepping into the room.
The doctor whirled around, his brow furrowing in immediate annoyance. "Who allowed you in here? This is a restricted medical area—"
"Mr. Cross appointed me as Miss Aria’s primary caretaker," Maren interrupted, walking over to the bed with a professional, confident air. She offered Aria a warm, gentle smile, sitting softly on the edge of the mattress. Aria’s eyes flickered with recognition, her tense shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
"I am reviewing Miss Aria’s treatment log," Maren said, keeping her voice light and professional. "What is in this infusion?"
Dr. Vance straightened his coat, scoffing slightly. "It is a proprietary herbal anti-inflammatory blend imported directly from a specialized clinic in Switzerland. Approved by Mr. Kane himself."
"May I see the pharmacological breakdown and the compound sheet?" Maren asked, reaching out her hand.
Dr. Vance’s eyes narrowed. "I don't answer to housekeepers, Mrs. Doyle. This regimen was ordered months ago."
"She isn't a housekeeper, Doctor," a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.
Damian stood frame in the threshold, dressed in a black crisp shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark, intricate tattoos creeping up his wrists—tattoos that marked his history in Chicago’s underworld.
Dr. Vance stiffened instantly. "Mr. Cross... I was simply explaining to Mrs. Doyle that altering Miss Aria’s routine without consult could be dangerous."
"Show her the sheet," Damian commanded, his tone leaving no room for debate.
Dr. Vance swallowed hard, dipping into his leather satchel and handing a stamped document to Maren.
Maren scanned the document quickly. On the surface, it listed standard botanical extracts: chamomile, milk thistle, and rare European root compounds meant to soothe nerve inflammation. But Maren had spent years in pediatric toxicology. She knew how certain heavy compounds smelled when heated.
She leaned down slightly toward the glass cup, catching the faint, metallic scent wafting from the warm liquid. It wasn't herbal. It smelled faintly of copper and bitter almond.
"Aria," Maren whispered softly, leaning down to eye level with the six-year-old girl. "Does this drink make your throat feel dry?"
Aria looked up at Maren, then glanced fearfully at Dr. Vance, before slowly, timidly nodding her head.
Maren set the cup back on the silver tray with a quiet clink.
"We will pause the herbal infusions for forty-eight hours, Doctor," Maren said calmly. "We are going to stick to clear hydration, organic bone broth, and basic electrolytes while I establish her baseline."
"This is absurd!" Dr. Vance protested, looking toward Damian. "Mr. Cross, stopping this Swiss compound could cause immediate regression!"
Damian looked at his daughter. Aria was looking at Maren with a faint glimmer of trust in her dark eyes—a trust she had never shown Dr. Vance in eight long months.
"The doctor is dismissed for the day," Damian ordered coldly. "Mrs. Doyle is in charge of what enters this room."
Dr. Vance looked as if he had been slapped. He snatched his tray, gave a curt nod, and practically rushed out of the room.
Once the door closed, silence settled over the bedroom.
Damian walked over to the side of the bed, looking down at Maren. For a moment, their eyes met—a quiet, unspoken understanding passing between the powerful mafia lord and the widowed nurse.
"You suspect something," Damian murmured, his voice so low only she could hear.
"I suspect that a six-year-old girl’s body is fighting something it shouldn't have to fight," Maren replied softly. "Give me three days, Mr. Cross. No unverified drinks. No imported supplements. Just proper pediatric care, sunlight, and a little bit of magic."
As if on cue, the bedroom door creaked open.
Nora peeked her head around the frame, holding Barnaby the lion. "Can Barnaby come in now? He brought a yellow crayon!"
Aria’s pale face suddenly lit up. A small, breathtaking dimple appeared on her cheek as she reached out a thin hand toward the door. "Yellow dragon," Aria whispered softly.
May you like
Damian froze. He closed his eyes for a single second, a shuddering breath escaping his chest as he heard his daughter’s voice for the first time in nearly a year.
When he opened his eyes, he looked at Maren—not as a boss looking at an employee, but as a father looking at a miracle.
