CHAPTER 2 — THE GHOST IN THE ROOM

The safehouse was a brutalist concrete structure hidden deep in the pine forests two hours north of the city. Inside, it was surprisingly warm, furnished with heavy leather couches and a massive stone fireplace.

Damiano had spent the last hour pacing the perimeter, making phone calls in hushed, furious Italian.

I sat on the rug by the fire, holding Nico until he finally fell asleep, his breathing evening out in the quiet room. I gently draped my coat over him.

Damiano walked in, holstering his weapon. He looked exhausted, the sharp angles of his face cast in deep shadow by the firelight. He sat on the coffee table opposite me, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

For a long time, we just looked at each other. Six years of ghosts sat between us.

"He's beautiful, Sienna," Damiano whispered, his voice cracking. "He's perfect."

"He's five," I said softly. "He likes dinosaurs, he hates the crust on his bread, and he asks too many questions." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "And he is yours, Damiano. He is entirely yours."

Damiano closed his eyes, a single tear escaping and tracking down his cheek. He reached out, his hand hovering over Nico’s dark curls, terrified to touch him, terrified he might break the illusion. Gently, he rested his palm on Nico’s head.

"They told me I was barren," Damiano said, his voice thick with suppressed rage. "When I was twenty, I was injured in a hit. The hospital... the specialist told my father the trauma made it impossible for me to father children. I believed it for fifteen years."

"Who was the doctor?" I asked.

"Dr. Aris Thorne. The family's private physician."

"Thorne," I breathed. I remembered the man. Cold hands, a fake smile. He was the one who had prescribed my "vitamins."

"I need to know exactly what happened the night you left," Damiano demanded gently.

I hugged my knees to my chest. "I was three months pregnant. I hadn't told you yet because I was so sick. Dr. Thorne gave me pills, said they would help the nausea. But one night, one of the maids—Maria—caught me before I took them. She was crying. She told me Enzo had paid her to switch my vitamins. That they were meant to induce a miscarriage."

Damiano’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.

"She said if I told you, Enzo would kill her, and then he would kill me," I continued, tears falling freely now. "She said you would never believe me over Enzo. He was your brother in every way that mattered. So I packed a bag. I drove to the coast, left my bracelet on the seat, and pushed the car. I walked ten miles to a bus station. I've been running ever since."

Damiano stood up abruptly, turning his back to me as he stared into the fire. "Enzo," he growled, the name sounding like a curse. "He told me you were depressed. He told me you drove off the cliff on purpose."

"Why would he do this?" I asked. "Why would he want me to miscarry?"

"Because if I didn't have an heir, the syndicate would pass to him upon my death," Damiano said darkly. "He orchestrated the lie about my sterility. And when you got pregnant anyway, he tried to erase it."

Damiano turned back to me, pulling his wallet from his pocket. He opened it and carefully slipped out a folded, slightly worn piece of paper. He handed it to me.

It was a printed ultrasound photo.

"I found this in your bathroom vanity the day after you 'died,'" Damiano said, his voice breaking. "I have carried it every day. It was all I had left of you."

I stared at the little grainy bean on the paper. I had hidden it, waiting for the right moment to tell him. He had known about the baby. He had grieved us both.

Suddenly, Nico shifted on the rug, blinking sleepily. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked at Damiano.

"Are you a policeman?" Nico asked, his voice groggy. "Because you have a gun. Policemen have guns."

Damiano froze. He looked at me, completely out of his depth.

"No, piccolo," Damiano said softly, kneeling down to Nico's eye level. "I'm not a policeman."

Nico reached into his small backpack, which I had grabbed from the diner. He pulled out a slightly crumpled envelope. "The nice lady at the park gave this to me yesterday. She said to give it to Mama."

My blood ran cold. "What lady, Nico?"

"The lady with the red hair. She bought me a popsicle."

I snatched the envelope from Nico’s hand. I hadn't been to the park yesterday; Nico had been with his babysitter. I ripped it open.

Inside was a single photograph of Damiano, standing in a cemetery, looking down at a headstone that read: Sienna Rocca. Beloved Wife.

Written on the back of the photo in elegant, looping cursive were the words: Check the signature.

Along with the photo was a photocopy of a medical document. It was the order form for the abortifacient drugs prescribed to me six years ago.

I looked down at the authorizing signature at the bottom of the page.