It started with a cry that cut through the Loop’s midday roar. On the concrete steps outside a Michigan Avenue Jewel-Osco, 9-year-old Maya Torres cradled her 11-month-old brother, Leo, whose whimpers had thinned to exhausted hiccups. Passersby streamed past—AirPods in, eyes down—until one man in a charcoal Brioni suit stopped cold.

Thomas Reed, 54, founder of Reed Capital Partners and a fixture on Crain’s “Most Powerful Chicagoans” list, had been en route to a $42 million condo closing. Instead, he found himself kneeling on sun-baked pavement, face-to-face with a child who weighed less than the briefcase in his hand.

“Where are your parents?” he asked.

Maya’s answer was barely audible over traffic: “Gone.”

What happened next unfolded in under four minutes yet ricocheted across social media within the hour. A bystander’s phone captured Reed instructing the store manager to “load up everything a baby needs—formula, diapers, wipes, cereal, the works,” then sliding his black Amex across the counter without a glance at the total. The clip—1.2 million views by nightfall—ended with Maya’s solemn vow: “I’ll pay you back when I’m grown up.” Reed’s reply, soft but clear: “You already have.”

By the time Reed’s driver pulled the Maybach to the curb, the bag in Maya’s arms held $312 worth of supplies. But the story didn’t end at the checkout lane.

Child Services arrived within the hour, alerted by the store’s loss-prevention team. Maya and Leo had been reported missing from a South Side shelter three nights earlier after their mother, Elena Torres, 31, failed to return from a night shift at a 24-hour laundromat. Police later found Elena’s body in an alley off 63rd Street—overdose, ruled accidental. No father listed on either birth certificate.

Reed, waiting in his SUV, watched caseworkers approach. Something—call it memory, call it conscience—propelled him out of the car. He handed the lead investigator his card. “Whatever they need,” he said. “Put it on my tab.”

That tab grew quickly. Temporary foster placement cost $1,800 a month; Reed covered it. Trauma counseling for Maya—$225 per session—was billed to his office. Leo’s pediatric checkup revealed iron-deficiency anemia; Reed’s assistant scheduled follow-ups at Lurie Children’s, no expense spared.

Three weeks later, on August 29, Reed filed for emergency guardianship. Cook County Judge Marisol Vega, overseeing the dependency docket, raised an eyebrow at the petitioner’s net worth—$1.4 billion, per Forbes—but focused on the children’s best interests. A home study of Reed’s 6,000-square-foot Gold Coast penthouse noted marble floors, a Sub-Zero fridge, and a nursery hastily converted from a wine room. The social worker’s addendum: “Mr. Reed has engaged a live-in nanny with 12 years’ experience and enrolled both children in developmental preschool.”

Guardianship became adoption on November 1. Maya, now 10, chose her new middle name herself: Maya Reed Torres. Leo, toddling and babbling “da-da” at anyone in a suit, officially became Leo Reed Torres. The final hearing drew local TV crews; Reed, usually allergic to cameras, allowed one photo—Maya clutching a teddy bear, Leo on Reed’s hip, the judge smiling behind them.

The transformation extended beyond paperwork. Reed’s real-estate portfolio now includes a South Side community center bearing Maya’s name, funded by a $5 million foundation seeded from his personal holdings. The center offers free lactation consulting, diaper banks, and GED classes—services Elena Torres never accessed. Enrollment hit 400 families in its first month.

Maya attends the private Latin School on scholarship (Reed declined to pay tuition, insisting the institution waive it “for optics”). Her first-grade teacher reports she reads at a fifth-grade level and has started a “Kindness Club” that collects canned goods for shelters. Leo, 14 months, is in the 75th percentile for height and weight, his cheeks round and rosy in new Instagram posts captioned simply “#Brother.”

Reed himself is quieter about the shift. At a recent Urban Land Institute panel, he deflected personal questions: “I’m late to the game. Plenty of kids still need what Maya asked for—one box of milk.” Yet colleagues note changes: the penthouse wine room is now stacked with Dr. Seuss; Reed’s assistant blocks 6 p.m. nightly for “family dinner—no exceptions.”

Not everyone applauds. A Tribune op-ed questioned whether billionaires should “play savior” instead of advocating systemic reform. Reed responded in a rare statement: “Policy fixes take decades. A hungry baby can’t wait.”

The viral clip still circulates, now overlaid with updates: Maya blowing out 10 candles, Leo smashing a cupcake, Reed in the background, tie loosened, laughing. At the adoption party—catered by a Michelin-starred chef who once turned Reed away for a last-minute table—Maya tugged his sleeve.

“I told you I’d pay you back,” she whispered.

Reed crouched, eye-level again. “Keep the change, kid.”