Chương 2
"Go upstairs with me," he whispered to her.
She nodded without speaking.
He carried her away from the kitchen.
Claire did not follow.
That bothered him more than if she had.
A person who cared would have followed.
A person who regretted something would have tried.
Instead, Claire stayed exactly where she was.
By the time Stallone reached the hallway, he heard the front door open.
He stopped.
"Lily."
She looked at him.
"Stay here."
Her fingers held onto his sleeve.
He looked down at her hand.
It took effort for her to let go.
That small hesitation followed him back into the kitchen.
Claire was near the entrance, speaking quietly into her phone.
She ended the call when she saw him.
"Was that necessary?"
Stallone looked at her.
"Who were you calling?"
"Someone who can help me."
"Your bodyguard?"
Her silence answered him.
The man stepped into the doorway a moment later.
He was broad, muscular, and dressed like someone who had spent years protecting people who believed problems could be solved with force.
He looked from Claire to Stallone.
"Everything okay?"
Claire straightened.
"He is being unreasonable."
The bodyguard studied Stallone.
He seemed uncertain.
That uncertainty lasted only a moment.
He had been hired to protect Claire, and people rarely questioned the person who signed their checks.
"Sir," he said, "maybe you should calm down."
Stallone looked at him.
"I am calm."
The bodyguard shifted his weight.
It was a small movement.
Almost invisible.
But it was the movement of someone preparing.
Stallone saw it.
He had spent too many years around conflict not to recognize the second before it arrived.
"Don't do this," Stallone said.
The bodyguard moved anyway.
The first step was enough.
Stallone knew where it was going.
He turned slightly, keeping the kitchen island between Lily's world upstairs and the violence about to happen downstairs.
The bodyguard's fist came forward.
Stallone blocked it.
The impact was sharp and sudden.
The bodyguard looked surprised.
Not because he had missed.
Because Stallone had moved faster than expected.
For years, people had mistaken age for weakness.
Stallone had never made that mistake.
One hard punch ended the confrontation.
The bodyguard stumbled backward and crashed against the kitchen island.
The objects on the surface rattled after the impact.
A spoon spun in a circle before falling still.
No one spoke.
Stallone stood there breathing slowly.
Then he turned away from the man on the floor.
He did not care about winning.
He cared about the little girl upstairs waiting to see what happened next.
He walked to the counter, grabbed the kitchen towel, and climbed the stairs.
Lily was sitting exactly where he had left her.
She looked smaller without the noise of the kitchen around her.
He wrapped the towel around her carefully.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
She looked at him with tired, confused eyes.
"For what?"
The question hurt because she truly did not know.
Stallone lifted her into his arms.
He carried her back toward the room where she felt safe.
Behind him, the house remained quiet.
But nothing inside it was the same anymore.
"You never touch her again," he said.
The words stayed in the air long after Stallone carried Lily into her room.
He sat on the edge of the bed with her wrapped tightly in the towel, waiting for her breathing to slow.
She was still holding onto the collar of his shirt.
Every few seconds her fingers tightened as if she needed proof that he was still there.
"You can let go," he said softly.
Lily shook her head.
"No."
The answer was simple.
There was no anger in it.
No accusation.
Just fear.
Stallone looked toward the small night-light beside her bed and felt something inside him collapse.
He had spent years protecting companies, employees, and people who could protect themselves.
He had negotiated with men who threatened him and walked away from situations that could have destroyed everything he built.
But he had missed something happening ten feet away from him.
That was the part he could not forgive.
"I should have seen it," he whispered.
Lily looked up.
"What?"
He brushed wet hair away from her forehead.
"Nothing."
She studied his face the way children did when they noticed things adults hoped they would hide.
"Daddy, are you mad?"
He took a moment before answering.
"Yes."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"But not at you."
She nodded.
The distinction mattered to her.
That alone told him more than any conversation could.
A child who felt safe did not need reassurance about being blamed.
Lily slowly leaned against him.
For several minutes, neither of them spoke.
The house made its ordinary sounds around them.
The air conditioner turned on.
A car passed outside.
Somewhere downstairs, a cabinet closed.
The normal noises felt almost offensive after what had happened.
Stallone stayed until Lily's eyes grew heavy.
When she finally fell asleep, he carefully placed her under the blanket.
He stood there longer than necessary.
On the dresser was a drawing she had made the week before.
It showed three people holding hands.
One was her.
One was him.
The third figure was smaller than both of them and colored with a purple dress.
He did not know who it was.
He had asked her once.
She had said, "Someone who is nice."
He had smiled at the time.
Now he wondered why she had needed to draw someone like that.
Downstairs, Claire was waiting.
She was sitting at the kitchen island with her phone beside her.
The bodyguard was gone.
The chair he had fallen into was slightly crooked.
The towel cabinet stood open.
Nothing dramatic remained except the feeling that something permanent had happened.
Claire looked tired rather than frightened.
That surprised him.
"You hit him," she said.
Stallone stopped near the island.
"He attacked me."
"You could have handled it differently."
He looked at her.
"Different from what?"
May you like
Claire looked away.
The question bothered her because there were too many answers.
