Chapter 12 - The scars that speak
Richard’s entire demeanor softened in a split second, transforming from a ruthless syndicate patriarch into a doting guardian. He signaled Viktor to step back into the shadows by the hearth, then climbed the stairs two at a time, scooping Noah up into his arms. The boy was shockingly light, feeling more like a bundle of hollow bones than a healthy child.
"No cold men here, Noah," Richard murmured against the boy’s soft hair, carrying him down to the roaring hearth. "Just friends. You shouldn't be out of bed. Your feet need time to heal."
"I heard the door," Noah whispered, burying his face into Richard’s broad neck. "Whenever the door banged like that, Uncle Mark said it was time for the bad room."
Viktor stayed motionless in the corner, but his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath the scarred skin. In thirty years of doing Richard's wet work, he had seen plenty of blood, but the sight of the boy’s terrified, bruised face rattled something cold inside his chest.
Richard sat down on the leather sofa, keeping Noah securely on his lap. "Sal brought hot soup, Noah. Real beef broth, freshly made. Can you eat a little for me?"
Noah hesitated, his eyes darting cautiously around the grand lodge before nodding timidly. Sal approached slowly, holding a warm porcelain bowl with a silver spoon, placing it gently on the low oak table.
As Richard helped Noah lift the spoon, the sleeve of the boy's oversized sweater slipped down his thin forearm. Richard’s hand froze.
Just beneath Noah's inner elbow was a series of dark, faded puncture marks, flanked by a deliberate, crude tattoo of an inverted spade no bigger than a coin. It wasn't the kind of mark given by accident; it was an ink branding used by low-level street runners in the underground trafficking rings of Detroit.
Viktor saw it from across the room and muttered a curse under his breath.
"Noah," Richard asked, his voice trembling with a barely suppressed rage that threatened to level the house. "Who put that picture on your arm?"
Noah pulled his arm back, shame flushing across his pale cheeks. He looked down at the carpet. "The man with the shiny teeth. He came to the basement when Uncle Mark went to sleep. He said if I cried, he would take away my bread for three days."
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"What did he call himself, sweetheart?" Richard pressed, keeping his tone as sweet as honey while his knuckles turned dead white.
Noah looked up, his lip quivering. "He said he worked for the Snake. He told Uncle Mark that once you were gone, I was going to be sold to a ship in Boston."
