Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary in the Clouds
I sat in the wide, cream-colored leather seat, my hands trembling as I took the baby from Matteo’s arms. She was so light—frighteningly light. Her name was Anya; I knew this because her father had whispered it against her forehead as he handed her to me.
The moment her tiny body touched my chest, my maternal instincts took over, obliterating the fear. The pain of my own grief—the memory of the nursery in Austin, the empty cribs, the silent house—swelled in my throat, but I pushed it down. Right now, this little girl needed to live.
I unbuttoned my blouse, unclipped my bra, and gently pressed Anya against my skin.
She screamed once more, a thin, exhausted wail, her tiny fists bunching against my chest.
"Shh, sweet girl," I cooed, my voice dropping into the rhythmic, soothing cadence I had used for my own boys. "I've got you. It's okay. You're safe."
I guided her lips to my breast. For a second, she resisted, her head shaking in frustration. But then, the warmth of the milk touched her tongue.
Instantly, her instincts flared. She latched.
The relief was so intense it made my eyes water. Anya’s tiny hands relaxed, her fingers splaying flat against my collarbone as she began to draw the nourishment her body had been screaming for. The rhythmic, wet sound of her swallowing filled the quiet cabin, a beautiful, sacred lullaby against the hum of the jet engines.
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for three months.
I didn't realize Matteo was still standing in the aisle until I heard the quiet rustle of his suit jacket. He was staring down at us, his jaw tight, his chest heaving with a profound, silent emotion. The ruthless mafia boss looked as if he were witnessing a miracle.
"She has not eaten in twelve hours," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "My wife... she died during childbirth three weeks ago in Geneva. Anya has refused every nurse, every formula, every bottle I bought. I was flying her to New York to see a specialist, but I did not think we would make it across the ocean."
"She didn't want the bottle, Matteo," I said softly, looking up at him. "She wanted her mother. And since she couldn't have her, she needed the next closest thing."
He slowly sat in the seat opposite me, his long legs brushing against mine in the tight space. He didn't look away from his daughter, his eyes shining with a rare, raw vulnerability.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Elena. Elena Rossi."
"You are a mother, Elena," he stated, it wasn't a question.
A sharp, familiar pain stabbed my heart. "I was. My twins... they passed away three months ago. SIDS. My husband left shortly after. He couldn't bear to look at me, and I couldn't bear to look at the empty rooms."
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Matteo’s gray eyes moved from Anya’s face to mine. The coldness in his expression returned, but it wasn't directed at me. It was the look of a man who recognized the devastating weight of survival.
"We are both ghosts, Elena," he said quietly. "But today, you saved my daughter's life."
