Chapter 2 - The Ghost at the Door

I pulled Emma and Oliver behind me into the hallway, standing in front of them like a shield. My heart was pounding so hard against my ribs it felt physically painful.

A single set of heavy footsteps ascended the wooden steps of my porch.

One. Two. Three.

The door didn't rattle. There was no forceful kick. Just a single, steady knock against the wood.

I reached out with a trembling hand, unlatched the chain, and pulled the door open.

The cold November wind swept into the hallway, carrying the scent of rain, expensive leather, and dark tobacco. Standing on my porch, illuminated by the flickering yellow light, was the most feared man in New York.

Aleandro Moretti.

He looked older. Silver hair dusted the temples of his dark, neatly combed hair. The lines around his jaw and eyes were deeper, carved by years of violence, stress, and unrelenting grief. He wore a tailored black wool overcoat, his broad shoulders filling the doorway.

His dark eyes ignored the hallway, ignored the peeling paint, ignored the rest of the world. They locked directly onto mine.

"Sophia," he choked out, taking a single step over the threshold.

"Stop," I stammered, holding up one hand, pressing my back against the wall to keep my balance. "Aleandro... stop right there."

Aleandro froze instantly. The man who bowed to no one, the man who ruled a billion-dollar criminal empire with an iron fist, stopped in his tracks because I asked him to.

Then, his eyes drifted lower.

Behind my navy scrubs, leaning against my leg, was Oliver. He was holding the hand of a little six-year-old girl with loose brown curls and big, solemn brown eyes.

Aleandro’s gaze fell upon Emma.

The color completely drained from his face. His dark eyes dilated in pure, unadulterated shock. He looked from Emma’s face—her nose, her curls, the exact shape of her jaw—to my face, and then down to his own hands.

"She..." Aleandro breathed, his voice cracking violently. "Sophia... who is she?"

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I swallowed the lump in my throat, my eyes stinging with tears I had suppressed for six long years.

"Her name is Emma," I whispered, my voice echoing in the chilly hallway. "She’s six years old, Aleandro. She’s your daughter."