Chapter 3

By the time we left the Lucchese estate, night had settled in deep.

Sofia curled against me, eyes swollen from crying, silent.

I kissed the top of her head, telling myself she'd worn herself out crying. I hailed a yellow cab and gave the driver the name of a hotel I knew well.

The Plaza.

Every time a New York charity gala ended, I used to take Sofia there for the night.

The concierge would spot me from across the lobby and bow with a smile—

"Good evening, Mrs. Romano."

But not tonight.

I stood beneath the gilded chandelier, disheveled beyond recognition.

"Good evening. I'd like to check into a suite."

I slid the Romano family credit card across the desk.

The young woman at the counter swiped it and looked up.

"I'm sorry, ma'am—this card has been frozen."

My stomach dropped.

Marco had frozen not only the Romano household card, but also arranged, through the joint account he still held with me, to freeze my personal Amex Black Card.

I pulled it out anyway and handed it over, praying.

She swiped again.

Two seconds of silence.

"This one… doesn't work either."

My fingertips went cold.

Nausea rolled up through my stomach.

Marco could actually be *this* ruthless.

He didn't just want me to bow. He wanted to cut off every last exit I had left in Manhattan.

The clerk lowered her voice, her tone flat, almost cold.

"Ma'am, will you still be attempting to check in?"

I swallowed hard, turned, and walked into the corner of the lobby. I dialed my best friend.

Bianca. My inseparable partner-in-crime since St. Catherine's.

"Bianca… can you lend me some money? Or use your card to book me a room? Sofia needs somewhere to sleep tonight."

Silence on the other end. Two beats.

Her voice dropped low.

"Chiara… it's not that I don't want to help you."

"My father's vineyard—we're in talks with the Romanos right now about our Northern Italian import channel."

"With everything going down about you all over the Upper East Side… if I stick my neck out, Marco could sink our business with a single phone call."

She didn't finish.

She didn't have to.

I hung up.

I stared at my reflection in the polished marble floor—

A woman with disheveled hair, cradling her child.

Twenty-eight years.

And I had *nothing.*

Nothing but this seven-year-old daughter still curled against me, still fiercely, unquestioningly on my side.

But in the very next moment—

She swayed, then slumped limp into my arms.

I pressed my hand to her forehead.

My heart went cold.

She was burning up.

I scrolled through my contacts.

One by one.

All those women who used to call me "Mrs. Romano," who used to fight to get their picture taken with me—the socialites, the charity ladies, the business partners—

Not one of them would take my call.

At last, my thumb stopped on the last name I ever wanted to bother.

Damian Rossi.

I hesitated a long moment.

Then, with Sofia's small body burning against my chest, I pressed call.

The phone rang only twice before he picked up.

The voice on the other end was low, steady, unchanged from all those years ago.

"Chiara. *Stai piangendo?*"

Just that one sentence.

Every scrap of composure I'd been holding together shattered at once.

I don't remember exactly what I said—only that when I hung up, a private car account had been opened in my name, a suite was reserved, and a family pediatrician was already on his way.

Half an hour later, I lifted Sofia up and walked back to the front desk of a different hotel—The Carlyle.

"Please, I need a room. My daughter has a high fever."

Behind me, in the lobby, I could still hear the whispers from the Plaza staff following me down the sidewalk in my head.

Earlier, at the Plaza, the clerk had rolled her eyes.

Her voice hadn't been loud, but it had been loud enough to reach the several richly-dressed guests standing nearby.

"That explains why the Romano cards got frozen—"

"You're that adopted Lucchese girl. The one who cheated on her husband."

I had frozen in place.

She had looked me up and down, her tone growing sharper.

"So the trash in the blood shows through, no surprise there."

"But then you had to go and pop out some mystery-blooded *bastarda* to embarrass yourself even more."

"Ma'am, the Plaza is a place of standing. Kindly leave. Don't stain our lobby."

Every eye in the lobby had turned to us.

Whispers.

I had opened my mouth to explain.

But what was there to explain?

I had bitten down hard, clutching my feverish Sofia, and stumbled backward out through the revolving doors.

December in Manhattan.

The wind on Fifth Avenue sliced through my collar like a blade.

Christmas lights strung the length of the street, garish in their cheerfulness.

Sofia was slipping in and out of consciousness, her small face buried in the crook of my neck, murmuring in a threadbare voice—

"*Papà… non lasciarmi…*"

Just that one sentence.

It had torn my heart into pieces.

I had gritted my teeth.

I had pulled out my phone and, with trembling fingers, dialed Marco's number.

One ring.

Two.

Ten.

No answer.

My fingers shook so badly I could barely hold the phone. I typed out a text—

*Sofia has a high fever. Can you come?*

A long while later.

He replied.

*The kid isn't mine. I don't have time to sit through your sob show.*

I stared at that string of letters.

Cars roared past on Fifth Avenue.

And I—I couldn't even cry. Not a single sound came out.

Which was when I had scrolled, at last, to Damian's name.

And now, an hour later, I was walking through the doors of The Carlyle, Sofia's small body still burning, but with somewhere—finally—to lay her down.

The night nurse Damian had arranged was already waiting.

I laid Sofia gently on the bed and watched, hollow-eyed, as the pediatrician began to work.

And then my phone lit up again.

Marco.

*Chiara. I'm not waiting any longer. Three days from now. City Hall.*

*Sign.*