Hidden behind the cold bronze of the statue, Analia's mind raced, a whirlwind of panic and adrenaline. She couldn't run out there. She couldn't let him see her.
Her frantic eyes scanned the gallery and found him. Leo. He was standing near a painting, his brow furrowed, searching for her and his sister.
She mouthed his name, a silent, desperate plea. "Leo."
His head snapped in her direction, his senses preternaturally sharp. He saw her, saw the terror in her eyes, and then followed her pointed gaze toward the staircase.
He saw Ella. He saw the tall man in the expensive suit. And even from this distance, he recognized the man's profile from the single, faded photograph his mother kept hidden in a small wooden box.
This was him. The man who made their mother cry when she thought they were asleep.
Instantly, Leo's four-year-old face hardened with a cold fury that was a miniature echo of the man he was staring at.
Analia made a series of frantic, silent gestures. Get Ella. Cause a distraction. Now.
Leo understood immediately. He didn't hesitate. He launched himself across the gallery floor like a small, determined missile.
He skidded to a halt beside Alessandro, who was still trying to reason with a stubbornly attached Ella. Leo grabbed his sister's arm and yanked her behind him, shielding her with his small body.
Then, he pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at the bewildered billionaire and screamed at the top of his lungs.
"Security! Help! That man is trying to take my sister! He's a bad man!"
The words detonated in the refined, quiet atmosphere of the gallery. Every head turned. Every conversation stopped.
Alessandro stared, completely dumbfounded, at the small boy who was glaring at him with pure, unadulterated loathing. A boy who, he realized with a jolt, looked exactly like his own childhood pictures.
Two burly security guards immediately converged on the scene, their expressions grim.
"Sir," one of them said, his voice a low rumble as he placed himself between Alessandro and the children. "Is there a problem here?"
Alessandro's business partner rushed forward. "It's a misunderstanding! This is Alessandro Dorsey!"
But Leo was a master of chaos. He began to cry, loud, convincing sobs, all while holding Ella tightly. "He was following us! I saw him! He tried to grab her!" he wailed to the growing crowd.
People were pulling out their phones, recording. The whispers started, ugly and speculative.
Alessandro Dorsey, one of the most powerful men in New York, was trapped. He was speechless, his face turning a dark, furious red. He couldn't defend himself, couldn't shout at a crying child. He was utterly, ridiculously powerless.
This was Analia's chance.
She slipped out from behind the statue, keeping her head down, a curtain of dark hair shielding her face. She moved quickly through the distracted crowd, a ghost in the chaos her son had created.
She reached the children, scooped Ella into her arms, and grabbed Leo's hand.
"Thank you," she said breathlessly to the guards. "We're fine now, we're leaving."
"Ma'am, we'll need you to come to the security office to file a report," one of the guards insisted.
Analia's mind worked fast. "My children are terrified," she said, her voice shaking with feigned panic. "I need to get them out of here. He's the one you need to talk to!"
She didn't wait for a response. Cradling one child, pulling the other, she fled. She pushed through the gallery doors and disappeared into the SoHo streets, leaving Alessandro to deal with the security guards, the gawking crowd, and the public relations nightmare her son had just unleashed upon him.
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