Chapter 2 - THE PENTHOUSE WITH NO LULLABIES
Natasha did not sign the contract.
Not immediately.
She stared at the number until the zeroes blurred together.
Two hundred fifty thousand dollars.
Her entire debt could disappear before Christmas. She could stop calculating whether she could afford groceries after making minimum payments. She could stop waking at three in the morning with collection notices flashing through her mind.
But money was not the part that frightened her.
Simon Gambino was.
“I have conditions.”
Simon looked almost amused.
His bodyguard, Marcus Bell, did not.
Marcus had returned to the room and stood ten feet away, built like a concrete wall in a charcoal suit. His expression suggested nobody had used the phrase I have conditions with Simon in years.
“Say them,” Simon replied.
“I’m not property.”
His eyes sharpened.
“I never said you were.”
“You said I move into your penthouse tonight.”
“For security.”
“Then say that. Don’t order me like furniture.”
Marcus actually looked away, perhaps to hide a reaction.
Simon leaned back.
“All right.”
Natasha blinked.
“All right?”
“You’re not furniture.”
“That wasn’t exactly—”
“I understood.”
For the first time, she saw something beneath the intimidation.
Exhaustion.
Simon had dark shadows beneath his eyes. His expensive shirt was wrinkled where the twins had clutched it. There was dried formula on his sleeve.
This terrifying man had clearly not slept.
Natasha looked toward the stroller.
“What are their names?”
“Eli and Noah.”
“How old?”
“Five months.”
“Pediatrician?”
“Three.”
“Developmental specialist?”
“Two.”
“Neurologist?”
“Yes.”
“Music therapist?”
Simon’s silence answered.
Natasha exhaled.
“I’ll try thirty days.”
“Six months.”
“Thirty days.”
“Three.”
“Thirty.”
A muscle moved in his jaw.
“Forty-five.”
“Thirty.”
Marcus coughed.
Simon stared at her.
Then, impossibly, the corner of his mouth moved.
“Thirty days.”
Natasha signed.
Three hours later, she stood forty-two floors above Manhattan wondering whether she had made the worst decision of her life.
Simon’s penthouse occupied the top two floors of a private building overlooking Central Park. There were marble floors, museum-quality paintings, bulletproof windows, armed security, and enough black suits moving silently through hallways to populate a presidential motorcade.
But the nursery stopped Natasha cold.
It was beautiful.
And completely wrong.
Bright automated mobiles spun above two enormous cribs. Electronic toys flashed red, blue, and green. Three sound machines competed with a ceiling projector that scattered artificial stars across the walls.
No wonder the babies were overwhelmed.
“Turn everything off,” Natasha said.
The nanny beside her froze.
Simon stood in the doorway.
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
Within minutes, the nursery became quiet.
Natasha dimmed the lights.
She removed the flashing toys.
Then she sat between the cribs and tapped three gentle beats against her knee.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Noah turned toward her.
Eli followed.
“Again,” Simon said quietly.
Natasha repeated the pattern.
The babies settled.
Simon stepped closer.
“Show me.”
She glanced up.
“You?”
“They’re my sons.”
There was something almost defensive in his voice.
Natasha moved aside.
“Sit.”
Simon Gambino obeyed.
That alone might have shocked half of New York.
She showed him how to keep his movements slow, how to use the same rhythm, how to wait instead of immediately reacting when one baby whimpered.
Simon's first attempt was terrible.
His fingers were too forceful.
“You’re not interrogating the table.”
His eyes lifted.
Natasha nearly smiled.
“Gentler.”
He tried again.
Three soft taps.
Noah watched.
Three more.
The baby's fingers uncurled.
Simon went absolutely still.
Noah reached through the crib bars and wrapped his tiny hand around Simon’s index finger.
Something changed in Simon’s face.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
His shoulders lowered.
His eyes softened.
Natasha suddenly understood that everyone in Simon’s world probably saw a crime boss first and a father second.
His sons did not know what a Gambino was.
They only knew whether his hands felt safe.
For the next week, Natasha rebuilt their routine.
No sudden lights.
No crowded rooms.
Consistent feeding times.
Quiet transitions.
Rhythmic exercises approved alongside their medical care.
And Simon attended every session he could.
Sometimes he arrived wearing a three-piece suit.
Sometimes at midnight with blood on his cuff that Natasha learned not to ask about.
But he came.
By the eighth night, Noah fell asleep against Simon’s chest without trembling.
Simon looked at Natasha as if she had handed him something money had never been able to buy.
“You did that,” she whispered.
“You taught me.”
“No. I showed you.”
His eyes stayed on hers too long.
Then Marcus entered.
“Boss.”
The tenderness disappeared instantly.
Simon carefully placed Noah in his crib.
“What?”
Marcus hesitated after noticing Natasha.
Simon’s expression hardened.
“Say it.”
“We found something in Vanessa’s toxicology records.”
Vanessa.
The twins’ mother.
Natasha instinctively turned away.
But Marcus continued.
“The overdose may not have been accidental.”
Simon became completely still.
“What did you say?”
“There were substances in her blood that weren't included in the original hospital report.”
Natasha felt the room change.
Simon looked toward his sleeping sons.
Then at Marcus.
“Who had access to her?”
Marcus swallowed.
“Someone inside this house.”
Simon’s gaze moved slowly across the nursery.
And Natasha realized something terrifying.
May you like
She had moved into a fortress to protect two vulnerable babies.
But the person who had killed their mother might already be living inside it.
