Chapter 2

I push open the heavy glass doors of Falcone Tower and walk inside.

The lobby smells of expensive espresso and floor wax.

Stylish men and women hurry past me. Their heels click sharply against the marble floor.

I am wearing a faded gray hoodie. My sneakers are worn out, the tops smeared with mud from rushing here.

Peanut squirms restlessly in the cheap, rough blanket from the public hospital.

A blonde receptionist looks at me. She stares like I am a delivery driver in the wrong building.

"Do you have an appointment, miss?" she asks.

"No appointment," I say. "I'm looking for Dante Falcone."

She immediately exchanges a look with the security guard.

"I'm sorry, but we don't accept walk-in visitors. You can leave your..."

Her professionalism makes her go through the routine of taking a message, but I cut her off.

"I'm here to drop off his child."

She stares at me, completely stunned. Her eyes lock onto the small bundle in my arms.

"Miss, we don't accept—"

"Just pass on the message," I say. "Tell him his son is here."

I walk over to a lobby sofa and sit down.

Peanut starts to cry. I support him with one hand and dig through my bag for a bottle with the other.

People walking by stare at me.

The two receptionists whisper to each other and make a phone call.

Five minutes later, the private elevator lets out a sharp ding.

A man steps out. He wears a sharp navy suit. He is in his early thirties, wears glasses, and walks with purpose.

He stops right in front of the sofa and looks down at me.

"Hello, I am Mr. Falcone's secretary," he says. "And you are?"

"Chloe Miller."

"Miss Miller, about the... child you mentioned. Can you elaborate?"

I answer him, but my eyes stay on Peanut. "I will explain this to Dante Falcone in person. No one else."

"Mr. Falcone does not receive visitors without an appointment."

"Then I'll wait." I don't move. I just adjust the bottle in Peanut's mouth.

Peanut coughs. Milk bubbles at the corner of his mouth. His little face turns bright red.

I quickly pull the bottle away. I lift him upright against my shoulder and pat his back with my palm.

A loud burp echoes through the lobby.

The man in the suit watches me for a few seconds. He dials a number on his phone and speaks a few low words in Italian.

He hangs up and gestures toward the elevator.

"Follow me," he mutters.

*****

The elevator goes straight to the sixty-second floor.

The doors open. The hallway is so quiet I can hear the hum of the air conditioning.

The secretary pushes open the door at the end of the hall and signals for me to enter.

The office is ridiculously huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Hudson River.

Dante Falcone sits behind a massive mahogany desk.

He looks like his photos online, but he is colder in person.

He looks at me. His face holds zero expression. He stares like he is looking at an unimportant document.

"Who are you?" he asks.

I walk straight to his desk. I don't hesitate. I place the swaddled Peanut directly onto the polished wood surface.

Peanut scrunches up his face. He just finished eating. A white ring of milk coats his lips.

"Sign for your son," I say.

Dante doesn't change his expression.

He leans back in his leather chair and studies me.

He doesn't look at the baby. He just stares at me.

"What do you want?" he asks. His voice is low and flat.

"Elena Miller," I say. "I'm her sister."

His brow twitches. It is very slight, but I see it.

"Where is she?"

"Milan. She took a flight early yesterday morning. She ran off right after giving birth. She canceled her phone number, blocked me on all social media, and vanished."

I throw the file folder onto the desk.

"The birth certificate is inside. Mother: Elena Miller. The father's section is blank, but she said it's you. If you think this is bullshit, get a DNA test."

Dante doesn't touch the folder.

He leans back in his chair and finally looks at the baby on the desk.

The baby moves. A tiny hand reaches out and touches the fountain pen resting on the desk.

"You came here," Dante says. "What do you want?"

"I don't want anything. the baby is yours. You deal with him. I have no obligation to help you raise your child."

"What if I say this child has nothing to do with me?"

"Then do the DNA test. The results take three days. Find me when they come out."

I pull a piece of paper from my pocket. It has my phone number and apartment address written on it. I slap it onto his desk.

"Three days."

I turn around and walk away.

I walk toward the heavy oak doors.

Behind me, Peanut lets out a sharp, piercing cry.

That sound hits my chest hard.

My hand touches the brass doorknob. My entire body freezes.

But I don't look back. I keep walking.