Chapter 2 - The Empty Nursery
Vincent reached the nursery before anyone could stop him.
He did not remember climbing the stairs.
One moment he was standing in the foyer staring at Margaret, and the next he was pushing through the nursery door so hard it struck the wall.
The room was empty.
Not mostly empty.
Not partially packed.
Empty.
The custom crib Vincent had ordered from Italy was gone.
The rocking chair Emily's mother had used decades earlier was gone.
The stacks of folded blankets were gone.
The changing table had been cleared.
Even the little wooden letters spelling LILY above the crib had been removed.
Vincent stood in the center of the room.
Lily.
Their daughter's name.
The daughter who had apparently existed for twelve days without him knowing.
His chest tightened.
On the wall opposite the windows was the mural Emily had spent weeks designing.
Tiny stars painted across a midnight-blue sky.
A crescent moon.
A small white rabbit sitting on a hill.
Vincent remembered coming home one evening and finding Emily standing on a ladder, heavily pregnant, correcting one of the stars because she thought the painter had made it too large.
He had laughed.
She had thrown a paintbrush at him.
That memory felt as if it belonged to another life.
"Where is she?"
Margaret stood in the doorway.
Vincent turned.
"Where is Emily?"
"I don't know."
It was a lie.
He saw it immediately.
Vincent had built his life by identifying lies.
He took one step toward her.
Margaret lifted her chin.
For twenty-two years, she had worked for the Moretti family.
She had known Vincent since he was sixteen.
She had also held Emily's hand while she cried through contractions in the back seat of a Mercedes because her husband was thousands of miles away comforting another woman.
That gave Margaret courage.
"Don't interrogate me, Vincent."
He stopped.
She almost never used his first name.
"Emily asked me not to tell you."
"She's my wife."
"She was your wife thirteen days ago too."
His jaw clenched.
"Where is my daughter?"
"She was your daughter while you were in Paris."
"Margaret."
"What exactly would you like me to say?"
Her voice broke.
"That Emily screamed your name during labor? That she stared at the door every time footsteps came down the hallway? That she asked me three separate times whether you had called?"
Vincent's face changed.
Margaret continued.
"Would you like to know that your daughter was born with dark hair? That she has Emily's mouth? That she curls her fingers around anyone who touches her palm?"
"Stop."
"No."
"Margaret."
"No, sir."
Tears filled the older woman's eyes.
"You don't get to silence the truth because you finally came home."
Vincent turned away.
His hand closed around the edge of the empty changing table alcove.
"What hospital?"
"St. Catherine's."
"Which day?"
"Twelve days ago."
"Time?"
"Six forty-two in the evening."
Each answer seemed to strike him physically.
Vincent pulled out his phone.
He opened his messages with Emily.
The last text he had sent before Lily's birth had been at 11:18 a.m.
Funeral arrangements are taking longer than expected. I'll call later.
Emily had not replied.
At 2:07 the following morning, while his wife was already in labor, Vincent had been sitting inside a private dining room at Le Meurice with Sophia and her father's attorney.
He remembered seeing Emily's missed calls.
Three of them.
He had intended to call back.
Sophia had started crying again.
He had put the phone away.
Nine hours after Lily was born, he had finally sent another message.
Sorry. Long day. How are you feeling?
Vincent stared at the screen.
For perhaps the first time in his adult life, he understood exactly how cruel ordinary words could look.
"When did she come home?"
"Two days after delivery."
"From the hospital?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"I brought her."
Vincent's throat tightened.
"And I wasn't told."
Margaret's expression hardened.
"She called you."
He had no answer.
He left the nursery.
His footsteps slowed as he entered the bedroom.
Emily's side of the closet was empty except for rows of designer dresses.
At first, that confused him.
Then he saw the handbags.
The shoes.
The jewelry boxes.
Everything he had purchased remained.
Everything personal was gone.
Her old college sweatshirt.
Gone.
The cheap silver earrings her father gave her when she turned sixteen.
Gone.
The paperback novels she kept beside the bed.
Gone.
Her grandmother's photograph.
Gone.
Vincent opened the bathroom drawers.
Her toothbrush was gone.
Her shampoo.
Her hair ties.
The small bottle of lavender lotion she used every night.
Nothing remained.
His eyes moved toward the nightstand.
The papers were there.
DIVORCE AGREEMENT.
He stared at the title.
Then at the signature.
Emily Carter Moretti.
Vincent sat down.
He had been shot twice in his life.
Once through the shoulder.
Once in the abdomen.
Neither wound had created the strange hollow pressure now spreading through his chest.
His lawyer had seen hundreds of divorce agreements.
Vincent had threatened enemies while watching them beg for their lives.
He had negotiated deals worth more than some countries' annual budgets.
Yet he sat for nearly five minutes without touching the pen lying beside the papers.
Finally, he picked up his phone.
Emily's number.
He called.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
He texted.
Where are you?
Then:
Emily, answer me.
Thirty seconds later:
Please.
He stared at the final word.
He could not remember the last time he had typed it.
No response came.
A knock sounded at the bedroom door.
His consigliere, Matteo Russo, entered.
Matteo took one look at Vincent and stopped.
"What happened?"
Vincent pointed at the papers.
Matteo crossed the room.
He read the first page.
Then he looked around.
"Where's Emily?"
"Gone."
Matteo frowned.
"The baby?"
"Born."
A pause.
"What?"
"Twelve days ago."
Matteo's face went blank.
"You didn't know?"
Vincent looked at him.
Matteo understood.
"Oh, hell."
Vincent stood.
"Find her."
Matteo hesitated.
"Vincent."
"Find my wife."
"Do you know whether she wants to be found?"
"That's irrelevant."
"No, it's not."
Vincent turned slowly.
Very few people would challenge him.
Matteo had been beside him since childhood.
That privilege had survived wars, funerals, bullets, and betrayals.
"Choose your next sentence carefully."
Matteo folded his arms.
"You left your nine-month-pregnant wife to spend almost two weeks in Paris with Sophia."
"Her father died."
"And Emily gave birth."
"I didn't know."
"You didn't know because you weren't here."
Vincent looked away.
Matteo lowered his voice.
"You can't solve this by sending men after her."
"I need to see my daughter."
"That part I understand."
"And Emily."
"That part you're going to have to earn."
Vincent laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
"Earn?"
"Yes."
"She is my wife."
Matteo tapped the divorce agreement.
"Apparently she's reconsidering the title."
Vincent's expression darkened.
Then his phone rang.
Sophia.
He stared at her name.
Something unpleasant moved through him.
He declined the call.
Matteo noticed.
"What happened in Paris?"
"Nothing."
"Define nothing."
"I helped arrange the funeral. Met with attorneys. Handled some debts her father left behind."
"Did you sleep with her?"
Vincent's head snapped toward him.
"No."
Matteo nodded.
"Does Emily know that?"
"She knows I would never—"
"Does she?"
Silence.
Matteo exhaled.
"You spent thirteen days with the woman everyone knows you loved before Emily."
"Loved."
"What?"
"Past tense."
Matteo studied him.
"Is it?"
Vincent did not answer quickly enough.
And that hesitation said more than any confession could have.
Meanwhile, twenty miles away, I was learning how to exist without waiting for Vincent.
My grandmother's house had two bedrooms.
The second became Lily's nursery.
Nothing matched.
Her crib came from the mansion, but the curtains were old cotton ones I found in storage.
The changing table was secondhand.
A lamp leaned slightly to the left.
It was perfect.
My attorney, Rachel Flynn, came by that afternoon carrying groceries.
Rachel and I had known each other since college.
She was five foot two, terrifying in court, and one of the few people who had never been impressed by Vincent's last name.
"He called my office seven times."
I looked up from Lily's bottle.
"Already?"
"He landed two hours ago."
"That seems fast."
Rachel stared at me.
"Emily."
"What?"
"Most women married to Mafia bosses don't casually leave divorce papers and disappear into suburban Evanston."
"I didn't disappear. I relocated."
"Without telling the Mafia boss."
"Technical distinction."
She laughed despite herself.
Then her expression softened.
"How are you?"
I looked down at Lily.
"Tired."
"I mean emotionally."
"So do I."
"Do you want him back?"
The question hurt more than I expected.
"I don't know."
Rachel sat beside me.
"That's not the same as no."
"I loved him."
"Past tense?"
I looked at her.
She smiled sadly.
"Exactly."
I adjusted Lily's blanket.
"I still love him."
There.
The embarrassing truth.
"I hate that I do. I wish leaving had turned everything off. I wish signing those papers had made him irrelevant."
"But it didn't."
"No."
Rachel touched my arm.
"Love doesn't obligate you to accept neglect."
"I know."
"And Lily changes everything."
I nodded.
That was the difference.
Before becoming a mother, I had accepted loneliness because I thought it was mine to tolerate.
Now a little girl would grow up watching what I accepted.
What would Lily learn if she saw her mother repeatedly placed second?
That love meant waiting?
That wealth compensated for absence?
That a woman should accept pieces of a man because the pieces were expensive?
No.
I would not teach her that.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A message appeared.
Emily. It's me. Please don't block this number too.
Vincent.
I stared.
Another message came.
I know about Lily.
My hand tightened around the phone.
Then:
I need to see her.
I handed the phone to Rachel.
She read the messages.
"What do you want to say?"
"Nothing."
"Then don't."
Another text appeared.
I am sorry.
I almost laughed.
Two words.
I had wanted those words from Vincent for years.
Now they looked strangely small.
Rachel's phone rang.
She answered.
"Rachel Flynn."
Her eyes moved toward me.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti."
I froze.
Rachel listened.
"No."
Pause.
"No, you may not come here."
Another pause.
"Because your wife has retained counsel, and because she gave me explicit instructions that you are not to appear at her residence uninvited."
Vincent said something.
Rachel's expression sharpened.
"Threatening me would be a terrible strategic decision."
Pause.
"I don't care who you are."
I almost smiled.
Only Rachel.
Then she said, "You have parental rights, and Emily has no intention of preventing you from developing a relationship with Lily. But you will do this properly."
She listened.
"Tomorrow. My office. Eleven."
Another pause.
"No bodyguards inside."
Rachel hung up.
My heart began beating faster.
"What did you just do?"
"Scheduled your husband's first lesson in consequences."
The following morning, Vincent arrived at Rachel's office at 10:37.
Twenty-three minutes early.
He wore a charcoal suit.
No tie.
No visible weapon.
Matteo waited downstairs.
Rachel met him in the conference room.
I watched through the half-open door from another office.
Vincent looked different.
Not softer.
Vincent Moretti did not know how to look soft.
But exhausted.
He had probably not slept.
Good.
Rachel placed a temporary separation agreement in front of him.
"You are not seeing Emily today."
His eyes went cold.
"I came to see my daughter."
"You'll see photographs today."
His jaw tightened.
Rachel slid her phone across the table.
On the screen was a photograph of Lily sleeping against my chest.
Vincent looked down.
Everything in him stopped.
For almost a minute, he said nothing.
Then his thumb touched the edge of the screen.
Not the image itself.
Just the edge.
"That's her?"
"Yes."
"She has Emily's mouth."
"So I've been told."
His eyes remained fixed on Lily.
"More photos."
Rachel swiped.
Lily asleep.
Lily yawning.
Lily wrapped in a yellow blanket.
Lily gripping my finger.
Vincent's breathing changed.
"Can you send these to me?"
Rachel looked surprised.
"I'll ask Emily."
Vincent looked up.
"When can I hold her?"
"When Emily is comfortable."
"She's my daughter."
"Correct."
"I have rights."
"You also have responsibilities, and you missed the first twelve days."
Pain flashed across his face.
Rachel did not soften.
"I suggest you stop approaching this like a territorial dispute."
Vincent leaned back.
"What does Emily want?"
"A divorce."
His gaze hardened.
"No."
Rachel actually smiled.
"Fortunately, Illinois doesn't require your emotional approval."
"I'm not signing those papers."
"Then she'll file contested."
"No."
"You keep saying that as though repetition creates law."
Vincent pushed the papers away.
"What does she want from me?"
"Nothing."
That answer hit him harder than Rachel expected.
"Money?"
"No."
"The house?"
"No."
"Property?"
"No."
"Jewelry?"
"She left it."
His voice lowered.
"Then what?"
Rachel studied him.
"She wanted you."
Vincent became still.
"And apparently that was the one thing you weren't willing to give her."
Behind the door, I closed my eyes.
I had never heard my marriage summarized so simply.
Several seconds passed.
Then Vincent asked, very quietly:
"Is she happy?"
Rachel glanced toward the office where I was hiding.
"No."
Vincent's face tightened.
"But," Rachel continued, "she's beginning to understand she can survive being unhappy."
That afternoon, when Vincent returned to the Moretti mansion, he went back into the empty nursery.
He stood beneath the painted stars for a long time.
Then he pulled out his phone.
Sophia had called six times.
He dialed.
She answered immediately.
"Vincent? I've been worried."
His voice was calm.
"What exactly did you tell Emily before I left Chicago?"
Silence.
Then Sophia laughed softly.
"I don't know what you mean."
Vincent stared at the empty wall where his daughter's name had once hung.
"You have five seconds to remember."
May you like
And for the first time since returning from Paris, Vincent Moretti began to suspect that losing his family had not been an accident created by one terrible decision.
Someone had been helping that decision destroy everything.
