Chapter 3 - The Girl with the Rabbit Bag
Emma had been told three times by the head housekeeper to stay in the laundry alcove while her mother finished folding linens in the east wing. But four-year-old curiosity is a relentless force.
Following a bright streak of sunlight, Emma wandered down the long, silent corridor of the second floor, her pink sneakers squeaking softly against the polished marble.
She stopped in front of a heavy, dark oak door that stood ajar by two inches.
Pushing it open with her small hands, Emma peered inside.
"Hello?" she whispered.
At first, she thought the big man in the black suit was sleeping. But then she saw the way his fingers twitched against the carpet, his face turning an alarming shade of bluish-gray, his mouth open in a silent, agonizing plea for air.
Emma didn't scream. Because of her own severe allergies, she had seen her mother panic too many times to waste precious seconds crying. She knew what struggling to breathe looked like.
She trotted across the room, her small backpack bouncing against her back. She knelt down beside the terrifying, bleeding-edge mafia boss of New York.
"Mister?" Emma asked softly, patting his massive, tattooed hand. "Are you having a scratchy throat?"
Aleandro’s bloodshot, terrified eyes rolled toward her. He couldn't speak, but his gaze begged for help.
Emma unzipped her pink rabbit backpack with practiced speed. Inside lay her final emergency EpiPen—the one her mother had bought using grocery money after weeks of skipping meals. It was her safety net. If Emma had an attack tonight, this was the only thing that stood between her and suffocation.
She pulled the red plastic case out, popped off the blue safety cap, and stared at Aleandro’s thick, muscular thigh encased in dark wool trousers.
"This is going to pinch," Emma announced gravely.
With all her four-year-old strength, she pressed the injector straight down into his leg until she heard the sharp click. She held it there for three Mississippi seconds, just like her mother had taught her.
Then she pulled it out, dropping the empty plastic tube onto the rug.
For ten agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Aleandro lay completely still.
Then, with a violent, shuddering gasp, his airway ripped open. Air flooded into his lungs. He coughed, choking and wheezing, clutching his throat as his chest rose and fell in ragged, frantic breaths.
He rolled onto his side, staring up through watering eyes at the tiny girl standing over him, holding an empty red injector case.
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"Who... who are you?" Aleandro rasped, his voice sounding like broken glass.
"I'm Emma," she said brightly, offering him a sticky hand to help him up. "You're welcome, mister. You look like you need a nap."
