Chapter 2 - THE VOICE I HAD SPENT SIX YEARS FORGETTING
Oliver held the phone toward me.
“He wants to talk to you.”
For six years, I had imagined this moment in nightmares.
Sometimes Matteo Moretti found me in a grocery store.
Sometimes outside Emma’s school.
Sometimes I opened my apartment door and he was simply standing there, dressed in black, surrounded by men who did not need to announce what they were capable of.
I had never imagined his son would be the one handing me the phone.
“Mommy?” Emma whispered.
I forced my fingers to move.
I took the phone.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Not empty silence.
Recognition.
I heard Matteo inhale.
“Sophia?”
The name I had buried struck harder than a bullet.
Emma looked up sharply.
Nobody in Queens called me Sophia Romano.
Nobody knew that name.
I was Sophia Bennett.
Nurse.
Single mother.
Woman who clipped grocery coupons and drove a twelve-year-old Honda.
Sophia Romano had belonged to another life.
To marble floors, armored cars, men carrying guns beneath expensive jackets.
To Matteo.
“I think you have the wrong person,” I said.
My voice trembled.
Matteo was silent for two seconds.
Then he said, “You still lie badly when you’re afraid.”
I closed my eyes.
Six years disappeared.
“Your son is safe.”
Another silence.
“Where are you?”
“I’m giving Oliver the phone back.”
“Sophia.”
I hated how my name sounded in his voice.
Not angry.
Broken.
“Don’t hang up.”
I glanced at Oliver.
He was eating soup again, though tears still shone on his cheeks.
Emma had pushed her bread onto his napkin.
“I have your son,” I said carefully. “He’s warm. He isn’t injured. I’m going to call the police and—”
“No.”
Every old instinct in me awakened.
“That wasn’t a request you get to make.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand enough.”
“Someone took him.”
My blood went cold.
I stared at the little boy.
“What?”
“His driver was found unconscious near the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. His security officer is missing. Oliver disappeared forty-eight minutes ago.”
My knees weakened.
“Then call the police.”
“I did.”
That surprised me.
The Matteo I had known avoided official attention whenever possible.
His voice dropped.
“We have NYPD, state police, and half my people searching for him. His phone went dead before we could trace it.”
I looked at the charger cable.
“And now?”
“We have the location.”
Of course.
I moved toward the front window.
Rain streaked the glass.
No vehicles yet.
But suddenly my little blue house felt transparent.
“How long?”
“I’m twelve minutes away.”
My heart stopped.
“No.”
“Sophia.”
“You cannot come here.”
“My four-year-old son is inside your house.”
“And my six-year-old daughter is inside mine.”
That silenced him.
The mistake was immediate.
My daughter.
Six.
Matteo had always been frighteningly good with numbers.
I heard his breathing change.
“Sophia.”
“No.”
“How old did you say she is?”
I hung up.
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then the phone rang again.
Dad.
Again.
Again.
I turned it face down.
Emma stared at me.
“Who is he?”
“Nobody.”
She frowned.
“People who are nobody don’t know your secret name.”
I wished she were less observant.
Oliver looked between us.
“My daddy’s nice.”
My stomach twisted.
I crouched beside him.
“I’m sure he loves you very much.”
“He does.”
He frowned.
“But people are scared of him.”
Emma leaned closer.
“Why?”
Oliver considered.
“Because he has a lot of cars.”
Despite everything, a laugh almost escaped me.
Then headlights swept across the front curtains.
Not one vehicle.
Three.
Five.
Seven.
Black SUVs filled Elm Street.
Mrs. Kowalski’s porch light came on across the road.
A curtain moved upstairs in the Ramirez house.
My nightmare had found my address.
“Emma.”
She heard something in my voice and immediately stood.
“Go upstairs.”
“Mom—”
“Now.”
Oliver looked frightened.
I softened.
“You too, sweetheart.”
But before they moved, doors opened outside.
Men emerged into the rain.
Dark coats.
Controlled movements.
Hands visible, but I knew where the weapons would be.
Then the middle SUV opened.
Matteo stepped out.
Six years had changed him.
He was thirty-seven now.
His black hair was shorter, silver barely touching one temple. He wore a charcoal overcoat over a black suit, no umbrella despite the rain.
He had always been handsome in a way that made people forgive the warning signs.
Now there was nothing soft about him.
Except his face when he looked toward my window.
I stepped backward.
A knock came.
Three times.
Harder than Oliver’s had been.
Emma appeared beside me.
“I told you to go upstairs.”
She slipped her hand into mine.
“I don’t want you to be scared alone.”
God.
I squeezed her fingers.
Then I opened the door.
Matteo Moretti stood on my porch.
For one endless second, neither of us spoke.
His eyes moved over my face as if checking every feature against memory.
“You’re alive.”
Not accusation.
Not relief.
Something deeper.
“I am.”
His jaw tightened.
“You let me believe you weren’t.”
“I never told you I was dead.”
“Someone did.”
That caught me.
Before I could respond, Oliver came running from the kitchen.
“Daddy!”
Everything inside Matteo transformed.
He dropped to one knee on the wet porch.
Oliver threw himself into his arms.
Matteo held him so tightly the boy squeaked.
“Daddy.”
“I know.”
“You’re squeezing.”
Matteo loosened his grip immediately.
“Sorry.”
He pressed both hands against Oliver’s cheeks.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did anyone touch you?”
Oliver shook his head.
“I ran.”
Matteo froze.
“From who?”
“The lady.”
“What lady?”
“The lady from the car.”
Matteo looked toward one of his men.
Something passed between them.
Not now.
He stood, keeping one hand on Oliver’s shoulder.
“Thank you.”
I folded my arms.
“He needed help.”
“You gave it.”
“Any decent person would.”
“No.”
Matteo’s eyes stayed on mine.
“They wouldn’t.”
Then Emma stepped partly around me.
Matteo saw her.
The street disappeared from his face.
His men disappeared.
The rain disappeared.
He stared at my daughter.
At her curls.
At the slight cleft in her chin.
At eyes that were not mine.
Emma stared back.
Children do not understand why adults fear truths they can see immediately.
She tilted her head.
“You look like me.”
My stomach dropped.
Matteo did not blink.
Emma touched her cheek.
“Your eyes.”
Matteo looked at me.
“Sophia.”
“Don’t.”
“How old is she?”
I said nothing.
He already knew.
Emma answered for me.
“I’m six and three months.”
Matteo’s face went completely still.
He looked at Emma again.
Then me.
I had seen Matteo furious.
I had seen him walk into rooms where armed men had threatened him and never change expression.
I had never seen him look wounded.
“You were pregnant.”
It was not a question.
I tightened my grip on Emma’s hand.
“Yes.”
Matteo stepped backward.
For the first time in all the years I had known him, he looked as though the world had physically struck him.
“You took my child.”
Fear became anger.
“You were going to kill us.”
His eyes snapped to mine.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I would never—”
“You ordered it.”
“I ordered what?”
“Mommy?” Emma whispered.
I stopped.
Not here.
Not in front of her.
Matteo understood too.
He looked down at Oliver.
Then at Emma.
His voice softened.
“Can my son stay warm for another minute?”
I wanted to refuse.
Then Oliver sneezed.
I opened the door wider.
Matteo entered my house for the first time.
Three of his men remained outside.
One came inside and stopped near the hallway.
Matteo removed his wet coat.
His gaze moved across the tiny living room.
Secondhand couch.
Emma’s school pictures.
A paper snowflake taped crookedly to the wall.
Six years of my life in one glance.
Then he saw the framed photograph on the bookshelf.
Emma at age three.
He walked toward it.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
“She’s mine.”
I didn’t answer.
“Sophia.”
“Yes.”
His eyes closed.
When he opened them again, the man I had escaped was gone.
What remained was a father who had just learned someone had stolen six years from him.
“Who told you I wanted you dead?”
My throat tightened.
“Your brother.”
Matteo went absolutely still.
“Julian?”
“Yes.”
I stepped closer.
“He showed me the order with your signature.”
Matteo’s voice dropped to almost nothing.
“What order?”
“To take care of the problem before your father found out.”
His face emptied.
Behind him, his security chief slowly looked up.
Matteo stared at me.
“I never wrote that.”
My skin turned cold.
“You expect me to believe—”
“Sophia.”
His voice cracked.
“I spent four years looking for you.”
The room went silent.
“Then Julian brought me a death certificate from Pennsylvania.”
My mouth went dry.
“What?”
“He told me you died in a motel fire outside Philadelphia.”
I stared at him.
Matteo looked toward Emma.
Then back at me.
“And if he lied about that…”
His expression changed into something terrifyingly calm.
“…then my son did not end up at your door by accident.”
At that exact moment, one of Matteo’s men entered from the porch.
“Boss.”
Matteo turned.
The man held out a small folded photograph.
“We found this in Oliver’s coat pocket.”
Matteo opened it.
I knew the picture immediately.
It had been taken three weeks earlier.
Emma and me walking home from school.
My address was written on the back.
Matteo raised his eyes.
Someone had not merely found me.
Someone had delivered Matteo’s missing son to my neighborhood carrying proof of exactly where I lived.
And suddenly, the most frightening thing in my house was no longer the mafia boss standing in my kitchen.
May you like
It was the person who had brought him there.
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