Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN THE DOORWAY

The armored SUV tore through the rain-slicked streets of the city.

I sat in the back, trembling. Matteo was fast asleep against my chest, completely unbothered by the erratic swerving. Vincent sat beside me, his large frame tense, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror.

He hadn’t stopped looking at me since we left the restaurant.

“You really don’t remember,” Vincent said softly, the harsh edge of the mafia boss entirely gone. He looked like a man who had been starving for a year and was finally offered bread.

“I remember feelings,” I whispered, looking down at the child’s drawing in my shaking hand. “I remember being terrified of him. I remember the smell of your cologne.” I looked up into his dark eyes. “Sandalwood and smoke. But I don’t remember this drawing. I don't remember a little girl.”

Vincent swallowed hard, his throat working. “Because she didn’t exist when they took you.”

I stared at him, the world tilting again. “What?”

“When Julian took you, you were seven months pregnant,” Vincent’s voice broke. He reached out, his large, scarred hand hovering over mine before gently resting over my knuckles. The heat of his touch sent a shockwave of absolute belonging through my body. “The doctors told me she died in the womb. They told me they had to induce labor to save Matteo. Then… the fire happened.”

“He lied,” I breathed. “About everything.”

“If he lied about the fire, he lied about the birth,” Vincent’s jaw clenched. “Twins, Claire. We were having twins.”

A sob tore out of my throat. A daughter. I had a daughter out there, in the hands of the monster who erased my mind.

“We are getting her back,” Vincent vowed, his fingers tightening around mine. “I will burn this city to the bedrock, but I am getting our daughter back.”

We pulled up to a heavily guarded underground garage. Men in dark suits swarmed the vehicle, their faces a mix of shock and awe when they saw me step out holding the boss’s son.

Vincent led me into a private elevator that opened into a sprawling, secure penthouse.

“Put him in the crib,” Vincent directed softly, pointing to a nursery down the hall.

I laid Matteo down on the soft mattress. He didn’t wake. He just rolled over, clutching my broken locket in his sleep. I pulled the blanket over him, a fierce, primal maternal instinct clawing its way up my throat. He was mine.

When I walked back out, Vincent was standing by a heavy oak desk, holding the key from the locket.

“I had my men tear down the hospital where you gave birth,” Vincent said, looking at the key. “Room 417 doesn’t exist anymore. Julian had that wing renovated three months ago.”

“Then what does the key open?” I asked, stepping closer.

Vincent turned the key over in the dim light. “It’s not a door key. Look at the grooves. It’s a lockbox key. Specifically, a vintage transit locker.”

He pulled a heavy, silver pocket watch from his vest. “My father gave me this watch. I gave it to you on our wedding day to keep you safe. You always carried it.”

He pressed the latch on the watch. It popped open. Inside, where the clock face should have been, was a photograph of the two of us. But the glass covering the photo was scratched with tiny numbers.

Coordinates.

“You scratched these into the glass before they took you,” Vincent realized, his eyes widening. “You hid the watch in my coat pocket the night you disappeared. I never understood what the numbers meant. Until now.”

I looked at the coordinates. “Where do they lead?”

“Grand Central Station,” Vincent said. “Locker 417.”

Before we could move, the heavy penthouse doors burst open.

Vincent raised his gun instantly.

But it was Matteo’s nanny. The woman from the restaurant. She was dripping wet, sobbing hysterically, holding a burner phone.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rossi!” she screamed, dropping to her knees. “He said he would kill my family if I didn't track your location!”

Vincent’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Who?”