Chapter 2 - THE BOY IN THE LOBBY
I didn't take the elevator. I took the stairs, my expensive leather shoes slamming against the concrete with a violence I usually reserved for my enemies.
Ten years. A decade of my wife carrying a grief so heavy it nearly crushed her, while I bought diamonds for the woman who had stolen our child.
When I pushed through the heavy fire doors into the hospital lobby, my chest was heaving. The late-night waiting room was mostly empty, bathed in the sterile fluorescent light. And there, sitting on a stiff vinyl chair, was Sophia. She was wearing the silk birthday dress I had bought her, her ankle magically healed.
Beside her sat a little boy.
My breath caught in my throat. Seeing a photograph is one thing. Seeing your own blood, your exact face from thirty years ago, staring back at you in the flesh… it stops your heart.
He was kicking his legs gently, staring down at his scuffed sneakers. He looked so small. So vulnerable.
I took a step forward. Sophia’s head snapped up.
For a second, panic flared in her dark eyes. Then, smoothly, she masked it with a look of profound, sorrowful relief.
“Vincent,” she gasped, standing up and rushing toward me. “Thank God. The hospital called me—they said Evelyn was in trouble. I didn't know what to do.”
She reached for my arm. I didn't move. I just stared at the boy.
Ethan had looked up at the sound of my name. His big brown eyes—Evelyn’s eyes, I realized with a gut punch—locked onto mine. He didn't look scared. He looked intensely curious.
“Who are you?” I asked Sophia, my voice dropping to a low, lethal whisper that made my capos tremble. “Really, Sophia. Who are you?”
She blinked, playing the victim perfectly. “Vincent, what are you talking about? I’m your friend. I brought—”
“You brought my son,” I interrupted, stepping around her.
Sophia’s face drained of color.
I knelt on the cold linoleum floor until I was eye-level with Ethan. Up close, the resemblance was undeniable. He had the same stubborn jaw, the same dark waves of hair.
“Hi,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Are you Vincent?” Ethan asked. His voice was quiet, polite. “Aunt Sophia says you're a very important man.”
“Aunt Sophia,” I repeated, the taste of bile in my mouth. I looked at his hands. He was clutching a small, tarnished silver object. My eyes zeroed in on it.
It was a silver money clip. Engraved with the initials C.M.
Carlo Moretti. My older brother.
“Where did you get that?” I asked, my blood turning to ice.
“Uncle Carlo gave it to me for my birthday,” Ethan said simply. “He visits us sometimes. He says my dad was a bad man who ran away.”
I slowly stood up and turned to Sophia. The betrayal was so absolute, so suffocating, I couldn't even form the words. My own brother.
“You think you know the whole story, Vincent,” Sophia whispered, stepping back, her facade finally cracking. “Evelyn didn't lose the baby, but she was going to lose you. The Commission wanted you dead ten years ago. They demanded blood.”
“So you gave them my infant son?” I roared, not caring who heard.
“No!” Sophia hissed. “We hid him! Carlo and I forged the papers to keep him off the mafia's radar. If your enemies knew you had a son, they would have slaughtered him in his crib. We lied to you to protect him!”
It sounded almost plausible. Almost.
Then Ethan pulled something else from his pocket. “Aunt Sophia, can I give him the letter now? The one the crying lady gave me?”
Sophia lunged for the boy, but I was faster. I grabbed her wrist, squeezing until she whimpered, and held out my other hand to Ethan.
The boy handed me a small, folded pink envelope.
I opened it. It was a receipt from a private Swiss bank account. Monthly deposits of fifty thousand dollars. The account belonged to Sophia. The depositor was Evelyn.
Sophia hadn't been protecting my son from my enemies. She had been extorting my wife for ten years to let her see her own child.
And as I looked at the date of the last extortion payment, I realized it was yesterday. The same day Evelyn collapsed.
May you like
Before I could speak, heavy footsteps echoed behind me. I turned to see three men in dark suits block the hospital exit. At the center stood my brother, Carlo, holding a suppressed pistol by his side.
“Let her go, little brother,” Carlo said softly. “Or I finish the job I started ten years ago.”
