Chapter 1

At three in the morning, I got a call from my mother, Deborah.

Loud sobbing came through the receiver.

"Chloe, come to Brooklyn Public Hospital right now," she cried. "Elena had a baby, but it's critical."

My sister Elena, from what I know, she's single, no boyfriend,not married.

I threw on a coat and rushed out the door. I took a cab to the hospital.

Deborah sat on a plastic chair in the hallway. She clutched a hospital baby blanket tightly to her chest.

I scanned the hallway. No Elena. I checked the ward. Elena wasn't here at all.

"Where is Elena?" I asked.

Deborah looked up. Her eyes were swollen like walnuts. "Boarded a flight."

She stood up and shoved the bundle into my arms. The sudden weight forced me to take a step back. A tiny face peeked out from the striped blanket. The face was red and wrinkled.

My brain couldn't process this. Deborah continued.

"Elena bought a ticket to Milan. She should be at the airport by now. She gave birth, and then she left."

I looked down at the baby in my arms. The cut umbilical cord was still wrapped in gauze. the baby's eyes were closed. His mouth opened and closed.

My brain buzzed.

"Call her."

"The number is canceled."

I pulled out my phone. I tried to contact Elena through all her social media accounts. I found out she had blocked me on everything.

I stood in the hallway. I held a newborn baby. I froze in place.

Deborah tugged at my sleeve. "Elena wants you to take care of him for her. Her modeling career is finally taking off. She can't be dragged down by a baby right now."

I found this completely unreasonable. "She had a baby, and she wants me to raise him? She can't be dragged down by a baby, so what about me?"

Deborah looked me up and down. Her gaze lingered on my plain clothes and messy low ponytail for a moment. "You are not like Elena. You are not as pretty as her, and you don't have any ambitions."

"Do you even know me at all? I am nineteen years old. I work as a waitress in Manhattan. Rent takes up half my paycheck. How am I supposed to raise a child?"

Deborah ignored me. She just kept crying. "Elena said we can't give the baby to an adoption agency. You have to raise him. The baby's father... he is someone we can't afford to cross. If they find out, we are dead."

Then she threw a plastic bag of hospital items at my feet. She walked quickly down the hallway and left.

I kicked the bag. Among the items was a piece of hotel stationery.

The content read: *The baby's father is Dante Falcone. Don't look for him. You can't afford to cross him.*

I took out my phone. I typed this name into the search bar.

The search results appeared on the screen: Dante Falcone.

The head of the Falcone family in New York. A man who used a large hedge fund as a cover, but actually controlled Manhattan's underworld.

In the photo, he wore a suit. His jawline was sharp. His eyes were cold.

I stared at the warning on the paper. I folded the note and stuffed it into my pocket.

The baby in my arms suddenly whimpered. A tiny fist reached out from the swaddle. He grabbed my collar.

I said to him, "Peanut, you're Little Peanut now. Tomorrow I’ll take you to find your dad."

*****

The next morning, I asked my boss for time off.

I bought formula, newborn diapers, and two glass bottles. This spent almost my entire food budget for the month.

I went back to my apartment. I mixed the formula. I sat on the edge of the sagging mattress and fed Peanut. Then I changed his diaper.

He fell asleep right after eating. He was unusually quiet for a newborn child.

I dug through the tote bag Elena left behind. There was a file folder inside. Just as I opened it, I received a text message from an unknown number.

*Chloe, I'm sorry. I can't take care of this baby, and I can't face his father. You're tougher than me. I feel safe leaving him with you. I told Mom. Don't hate me.*

But inside the manila envelope was her schedule.

Don't hate her？

She had booked a one-way ticket to Milan three months before her due date. She canceled her phone number. She deleted all her contacts. After giving birth, she didn't even stay in the delivery room for an extra hour.

This was a premeditated abandonment. It wasn't a lack of options.

I wrapped the baby tightly in the hospital blanket.

I walked out of the apartment building. I hailed a yellow cab.

Then I took out the note with Dante's name on it. I said to the driver, "To the Falcone family headquarters building. In Midtown."