Chapter 2 - The Softness of Pink
I didn't stand up immediately.
I sat on the cold hospital floor with my back pressed against the wall, listening to the muffled hum of the maternity ward—the soft beeping of monitors, the distant laughter of a nurse, the squeak of rubber soles against linoleum.
James stayed on his knees beside me, not touching me now, giving me the space he knew I desperately needed. He looked smaller somehow, stripped of his vast wealth, his army of guards, and his terrifying reputation. In that moment, he was just a man caught between an unyielding oath made in blood and the woman he loved more than his own life.
"Get up," I said softly after a long silence.
James blinked, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Claire?"
"Get up, James."
I pushed myself up against the wall, my legs still trembling slightly. I turned and unlocked the private room door, stepping inside.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the warm golden glow of a small bedside lamp. In the center of the room stood the clear plastic hospital bassinet.
I walked over to it slowly, every step feeling as if I were underwater.
The baby was tiny—much smaller than my three boys had been at birth. Leo had been eight pounds; Julian and Mateo had both been over nine. This little girl couldn't have been more than six and a half pounds.
She had a thick mop of dark, raven hair, fine pale skin, and tiny pink lips that twitched as she dreamed.
She was wrapped in a simple flannel hospital blanket patterned with small pink hearts.
I reached down with a shaking hand, my thumb gently brushing against the side of her soft, warm cheek.
Her tiny hand immediately uncurled from beneath her chin, her microscopic fingers reaching out instinctively until they wrapped around my pinky finger with surprising, delicate strength.
A strange, overwhelming ache bloomed in the center of my chest—a sensation so fierce and sudden it made my eyes sting with tears.
For seven years, ever since Mateo was born and the doctor gave us that terrifying diagnosis, I had forced myself to shut down a room inside my heart. I had walked past boutique clothing store windows filled with little smocked dresses without looking. I had smiled politely at baby showers for my friends, burying the quiet, hollow grief deep down where no one could see it.
And now, here she was.
Not created in my body, not carrying my blood, but breathing quietly in front of me, clutching my finger as if I were the only anchor in a dark, stormy ocean.
James stepped into the room, stopping a few feet behind me. He looked at my hand holding the baby's fingers, his breath catching in his throat.
"What is her name?" I asked, not taking my eyes off her face.
"She doesn't have one," James replied quietly. "Her mother... her mother passed before she could fill out the birth certificate. The hospital listed her as 'Baby Girl Vance.'"
I looked up at James. "What about her father? The man in Detroit?"
James’s eyes hardened, the terrifying mafia boss returning for a brief, lethal second before softening again. "His name is Damon Cross. He’s a ruthless, paranoid lieutenant for the Marcone organization in Michigan. He didn't know she was pregnant when she fled six months ago. My men are already clearing her records from the hospital mainframes. As far as the state of Illinois and the city of Chicago are concerned, this baby girl does not exist on paper."
"And how do we make her exist?" I asked.
James took a slow step closer, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper—a blank adoption decree and a private custody transfer prepared by his top corporate attorney.
"If you say no, Claire," James said, his voice completely steady, "I will secure her in a private estate in Italy with top-tier nanny staff, full security, and unlimited financial support. She will be safe, loved, and provided for every day of her life."
He paused, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my heart stop.
"But if you say yes... she becomes a Moretti. She becomes our daughter. She sleeps under our roof, she plays with our boys, and anyone who tries to take her will have to burn down the entire city of Chicago to get through me."
I looked back down at the baby girl. She opened her tiny eyes slowly—cloudy, dark blue eyes that blinked up at me in the dim light of the room.
She let out a soft, sweet coo, her tiny fingers tightening around my pinky.
Tears spilled over my eyelashes, falling onto the edge of her pink flannel blanket.
"Go home, James," I whispered softly.
May you like
James stiffened, his face going pale. "Claire..."
"Go home to the garage," I said, wiping my tears with my free sleeve, looking up at my husband with a quiet, unshakeable certainty. "Bring me the box of newborn clothes."
