Chapter 2 - The Penthouse With No Locked Doors
The elevator opened directly into Vincent’s penthouse at 3:06 a.m.
Clara had been there before.
Once.
During their marriage, Vincent had kept the apartment for nights when business made returning to the estate inconvenient. She remembered floor-to-ceiling windows, black marble, expensive furniture nobody seemed comfortable sitting on, and an enormous view of the city.
Nothing had changed.
That was the first thing she hated about it.
The second was the six armed men waiting inside.
“No.”
Vincent stopped.
Clara stood in the elevator wearing his overcoat, one hand beneath her stomach.
“What?”
“The men.”
His expression sharpened.
“They’re security.”
“I can see that.”
She pointed into the apartment.
“I’m not sleeping inside a military checkpoint.”
“Clara, someone could—”
“You said I could argue after I slept. I’m arguing now.”
Frankie lowered his eyes, perhaps hiding amusement.
Vincent noticed.
Frankie instantly became interested in the ceiling.
Vincent turned back toward Clara.
“How many?”
“What?”
“How many guards can you tolerate?”
It was such an unexpected question that she needed a moment.
“None inside my room.”
“Agreed.”
“None outside the bathroom.”
His jaw flexed.
“Agreed.”
“No one follows me from room to room.”
“Two stay near the elevator.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Vincent.”
“One.”
Dino coughed into his fist.
Vincent gave him a look that could have frozen water.
Clara stepped from the elevator.
“See? That wasn’t fatal.”
“That remains to be determined.”
For the first time that night, the corner of Clara’s mouth nearly moved.
Then another tightening rolled across her abdomen.
She gripped the wall.
Vincent was beside her immediately.
“Doctor.”
“I don’t need—”
“Doctor.”
“Vincent.”
He took out his phone.
“Someone is coming.”
“You don’t control my medical care.”
He stopped dialing.
The fact that he actually stopped made Clara look at him.
“Then you call,” he said.
She hesitated.
“My clinic doesn’t answer at this hour.”
“Choose any hospital.”
“And arrive surrounded by your men?”
“If necessary.”
“No.”
Vincent closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, he had found another solution.
“There’s an obstetrician I trust. Dr. Rebecca Hayes. She treated Frankie’s wife.”
Clara glanced toward Frankie.
He nodded.
“She’s good.”
“Does she work for Vincent?”
Frankie almost smiled.
“Nobody who has met Dr. Hayes would say she works for anybody.”
That was enough.
Forty minutes later, Rebecca Hayes arrived carrying a medical bag and the expression of a woman deeply unimpressed by wealthy men.
She ignored Vincent completely.
“Clara?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Rebecca. May I examine you?”
Clara nodded.
“Bedroom?”
Vincent started walking.
Rebecca held up one finger.
“Not you.”
He stopped.
“My child—”
“Is currently inside my patient.”
Frankie looked down again.
Vincent’s reputation had emptied restaurants and changed political decisions.
Dr. Hayes closed a bedroom door in his face.
Clara liked her immediately.
The examination took nearly thirty minutes.
Blood pressure elevated from stress.
Dehydrated.
Overworked.
No active labor.
The baby’s heartbeat was strong.
“You need rest,” Rebecca told her. “Real rest. Food. Fluids. And no more overnight shifts.”
Clara stared at the ceiling.
“Did Vincent pay you to say the last part?”
“I charge him more every time he annoys me.”
Clara laughed.
The sound startled her.
It had been a long time.
Rebecca’s expression softened.
“Your baby looks good. But you’re exhausted. Thirty-four weeks is too early for him to arrive if we can avoid it.”
She handed Clara a cup of water.
“Do you feel safe here?”
The question erased Clara’s smile.
Rebecca waited.
“Yes,” Clara finally said. “Physically.”
“That wasn’t exactly what I asked.”
Clara looked toward the closed door.
“He won’t hurt me.”
“Good.”
“But he doesn’t understand the difference between protecting someone and owning every decision around them.”
Rebecca nodded slowly.
“Then make him learn.”
When they emerged, Vincent was standing exactly where Rebecca had left him.
“How are they?”
“Clara is my patient. Ask her.”
Vincent looked at Clara.
She almost admired Rebecca’s method.
“The baby is fine.”
His shoulders lowered slightly.
“I’m dehydrated and exhausted.”
“I’ll have—”
Clara lifted one eyebrow.
Vincent stopped himself.
“What do you need?”
Progress.
Small.
But real.
“Water. Food. Sleep.”
“You’ll have them.”
Rebecca packed her bag.
“And less stress.”
Vincent frowned.
Rebecca looked directly at him.
“Yes, I’m talking about you.”
After the doctor left, Clara walked toward the guest room.
Vincent followed at a distance.
She opened the door.
There was one guard in the hallway.
“Remove him.”
“He’s twenty feet away.”
“Vincent.”
The guard disappeared before Vincent even spoke.
Clara entered.
Then turned.
“Good night.”
“We need to talk.”
“No. You need answers. That isn’t the same thing.”
His expression hardened.
“You concealed my child for eight months.”
“And you brought armed men into a diner to collect me like property.”
“I didn’t know you were there.”
“That is the only reason you hadn’t done it sooner.”
Vincent became silent.
Clara was too tired to soften anything.
“You want to know why I left?”
“Yes.”
“You.”
The word landed between them.
“Not your enemies. Not the estate. Not the guards. You.”
Pain flickered behind his eyes.
Clara continued.
“I couldn’t buy groceries without three men coming with me. I couldn’t meet a friend without someone researching her family. You canceled dinners because somebody whispered about a threat. You changed my phone without asking. You had a security team read my messages.”
“That was after a threat against you.”
“It was still my phone.”
“Someone sent you photographs of a coffin.”
“And you responded by taking away more of my life.”
Vincent said nothing.
“You loved me like something that could be stolen,” Clara whispered. “So eventually I felt stolen anyway.”
The city glowed behind him.
For a man who always had an answer, Vincent looked almost defenseless.
“When I left,” she continued, “I wanted to know whether I could make one decision without Rossi money fixing the consequences.”
“You could have lived comfortably.”
“On your three million dollars?”
“It was yours.”
“Was it?”
His brows drew together.
“I checked the account documents. The bank would have notified your financial people every time money moved.”
“Because of security regulations.”
“Exactly.”
“You think I intended to spy on you?”
“I think you never realized how much spying had become normal.”
Vincent looked toward the floor.
Clara had never seen him do that during an argument.
“I found out I was pregnant three weeks after the divorce,” she said.
His head lifted.
“I sat in that motel bathroom and thought about calling you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I knew what would happen.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I did. You would have sent a doctor. Guards. A driver. You would have moved me somewhere secure. You would have called the baby an heir before he had a name.”
Vincent’s silence admitted too much.
“I wanted one thing in his life that belonged to him before it belonged to the Rossi family.”
“He is my son.”
“Yes.”
The answer shocked him.
Clara’s eyes filled.
“Yes, Vincent. He’s yours.”
His face changed.
The lie in the diner had officially disappeared.
Vincent slowly lowered himself into the chair beside the doorway.
For nearly a minute, neither spoke.
“A son,” he whispered.
Clara placed her hand over her stomach.
“Your son.”
Something vulnerable crossed his face.
“Does he have a name?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I hadn’t decided.”
His voice became even quieter.
“Can I be part of that decision?”
Clara stared at him.
The old Vincent would have announced a name connected to his father or grandfather.
This man had asked.
“Maybe.”
He accepted it.
Another surprise.
Clara moved toward the bed.
Then Vincent’s phone rang.
His entire posture changed.
The softness disappeared.
“Frankie.”
A voice answered through the speaker.
Vincent listened.
His expression darkened.
“When?”
Clara stopped.
“What happened?”
Vincent didn’t answer immediately.
Frankie appeared at the bedroom entrance seconds later.
“We checked the diner’s exterior cameras.”
“And?”
“There was another vehicle parked across Highway 9.”
Vincent stood.
“Plate?”
“Stolen.”
“How long?”
“Forty-seven minutes before we arrived.”
Cold moved through Clara.
Vincent’s gaze settled on her.
Frankie continued reluctantly.
“Whoever was inside photographed Clara leaving the building yesterday morning.”
“No.”
Clara shook her head.
“That could be anybody.”
Frankie reached into his jacket and produced a phone.
“There’s more.”
A photograph filled the screen.
Clara walking outside an obstetrics clinic three days earlier.
Her coat open.
Her pregnancy unmistakable.
The image had been taken from across the street.
Clara’s mouth went dry.
“Where did you get this?”
“An encrypted message sent to one of our information people tonight.”
Vincent took the phone.
There were four words beneath the photograph.
ROSSI’S BLOOD IS ALIVE.
Clara sat down hard on the edge of the bed.
For eight months, she had believed hiding had protected her son.
Someone had found them anyway.
Vincent crouched in front of her.
She expected an I told you so.
It never came.
Instead he said, “I need you to listen carefully.”
Clara’s eyes met his.
“I will not lock you here.”
She stared at him.
“I will not take your phone. I will not choose your doctor. I will not put guards inside your room.”
His voice remained controlled, but she could see fury behind it.
“But someone knows about our child.”
“Our?”
Vincent’s eyes softened.
“Our child.”
Clara’s hand moved instinctively over the place where the baby kicked.
Vincent looked at it.
He did not reach out.
Not yet.
“Who would do this?” she asked.
Vincent stood.
“The Morettis would use the information.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He understood.
“Someone close enough to me knew where to send it.”
Clara felt colder.
“You think someone inside your organization was looking for me?”
Vincent looked through the glass windows at the sleeping city.
“No.”
His voice became deadly calm.
“I think someone inside my organization already found you.”
And suddenly the penthouse didn’t feel like protection.
May you like
It felt like the center of the target.
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