She told him the story in a quiet voice, glancing around as she spoke as though someone might be listening from the shadows.
Men had arrived at their home claiming her mother owed money. They had taken everything in two visits. Furniture. Clothes. Appliances. Even the crib belonging to her baby brother. Her mother had been warned not to speak to anyone about what happened.
When the girl lifted her sleeve and showed him the bruises on her thin arm, Rocco went very still.
She told him she had recognized one of the men.
He leaned down and asked her who it was.
She told him in a small, steady voice that the man with the scar across his cheek had said he worked for Rocco’s organization.
For a moment the only sound between them was the rain.
Rocco understood immediately what this meant. Someone wearing his name had entered the home of a grieving widow and her children and taken everything they owned. Someone had put bruises on a seven-year-old girl and called it business.
He asked where her mother was.
She said her mother was at home, too weak to stand.
He held out his car keys and told her to get in.
The House at the End of the Street
