Chapter 3

I didn’t know what it was. Some buried instinct. Some echo of this body’s former owner, now fused with my soul.

Or maybe…

Maybe it was fate’s cruel joke. To put a killer in the body of a mother… and watch what happens next.

The eight-year-old took another cautious step, then leaned against the bedframe, watching me closely. The eldest’s arms slowly dropped to her sides. Her lower lip quivered, but her eyes stayed locked on mine, burning with questions.

I couldn’t answer them.

Hell, I couldn’t even answer myself.

So I did the only thing I could. I reached out. I pulled them both in. They hesitated—but only for a heartbeat. Then they collapsed into me, small bodies pressing against my sides, burying their faces into my arms.

But instead… I let them hold me. And for the first time in my life—not as Leon Darrow, the kingpin… The room fell silent but for their soft breaths, and my own racing heart. I should’ve pulled away. I should’ve rejected this false world.

But as this unknown woman with trembling limbs and an aching soul…

I whispered the first words I ever meant in silence: "I’m here."

“Thank you, Mommy, for waking up,” the middle one whimpered, her tiny voice trembling. I didn’t know what it was—something in her tone, in the way her little fingers clutched the hem of my shirt—but it stabbed right through my ribs and straight into the heart I didn’t even know this body had.

My chest tightened. Not the way it used to when I got shot. Not the silent dread of an enemy creeping through shadows. This was different. This body remembered something. Something painful. Something that had cried itself into unconsciousness.

“Mom…” the eldest spoke this time, voice barely a whisper. She sat curled up beside me, her limbs warm, twitching, her brows furrowed in concern too heavy for a child. “Why did you cry last night? I heard you cry so hard…”

I blinked.

Cry?

My throat burned, dry and tight. My eyes ached. Swollen. Tired.

“I… I don’t remember.” The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. My voice cracked. Not like a confession. More like a surrender. “Did I cry?”

“Yeah,” the middle one said solemnly, crawling closer, balancing on the edge of the mattress like a wobbly kitten. “You cried for hours… after you spilled the milk from your boobies.”

Milk? Boobies?

I stared down at the baby still latched to my—my breast. She gurgled contentedly, cheeks plump and rosy, as if she hadn’t just hijacked my whole existence.

“Mommy, did you have a bad dream?””

“I think so,” I said slowly, nodding at the middle one’s question. “Yes… I did. It was a really, really bad dream.”

“See, Maya?” the middle one turned to her older sister, all confidence now. “Mommy had a nightmare because she forgot to brush her teeth last night. That’s why she had the cry-dream.”

Cry-dream?

Tooth brushing?

The girl huffed and went over to the side of the bed. She knelt, rummaged under the mattress, and pulled out—God help me—a small, square piece of bread that looked like it had just emerged from the underworld. It had spots. It had corners. It was… evolving.

So the eldest one’s name was Maya? That was a start.

My mind scrambled, trying to piece together anything I could: names, history, context. I had no idea who these children were, or who this body belonged to. I couldn’t remember a thing. Not my name. Not my life. Not even what day it was.

But this body? It remembered something. The way it ached. The way it flinched when the baby cried. It wasn’t just the screaming that made me want to punch a wall—it was… guilt. A mother's guilt. Like I had done something terribly wrong before I woke up.

Great. So now I was a guilt-ridden, emotionally bankrupt woman with three kids, zero memory, and a body that made me feel like I needed a manual just to walk.

“I don’t think you should eat that,” I muttered, watching the middle child eye the bread like it was treasure.

“Why?” she blinked.

“Because it’s… um… not—”

“Delicious?” she interrupted, dead serious. “But I already ate half of it this morning. I didn’t wanna share with Maya.”

Then, with horrifying confidence, she bolted across the room, the moldy bread clutched tight in her tiny grubby hand like it was a precious gem. She even hissed at her sister when Maya reached out.

“Oh god…” I muttered, slumping back against the pillow. “This is hell. I’ve died and gone to hell. The demons are children and the currency is expired carbs.”

The baby gave a sleepy hiccup and released my breast with a wet pop, sighing like she'd just solved world peace.

I stared at her. She stared back. Her big, trusting eyes blinked once. Then she grabbed my nipple again like it was her personal stress ball.

“Please stop,” I whispered to her. “Please don’t touch me. I was a man just yesterday. I paid someone to iron my suits. I shot a man in Monaco for chewing too loud. I am not built for this.”

“Mommy?” Maya said gently.

I turned. Her voice was quiet again.

She was holding something out to me. A drawing. Stick figures. Me, apparently, in the center, with a crown on my head and the three girls around me. Big hearts. Terrible proportions. Absolute chaos.

“You drew this?” I asked, holding it like it was a live grenade.

She nodded. “We thought it might help you feel better. You’ve been… sad for a long time.”

I stared at her. At the drawing. Then back at her.

Me?

Sad?

The body was sad. Broken. Empty. But me?

I was Leon Darrow. I didn’t do sad.

But my hand reached out anyway. Shaking. I took the drawing. I looked down at it again, then back up.

“Thanks,” I said quietly.

Maya smiled.

The middle child barreled back in with suspicious crumbs around her mouth.

“See? Told you she’d like it,” she beamed. “By the way, Mommy—can we have pancakes today? Not the burnt kind this time. You burned it real bad last week and said a lot of scary words.”

I blinked. “Pancakes?”

“I can help cook!” Maya chimed.

“I can help eat!” the middle child shouted proudly.

The baby burped and spit up on my chest.

Perfect.

There I was. Once the most feared man in four continents. A living legend. Now being spit on by an infant while two little girls planned a breakfast rebellion.

And the worst part?

I didn’t even know their names.