Chapter 5 - The Son Without a Name
Three weeks passed.
Giana stopped measuring time by days.
She measured it by doors.
The first safe house had two exits.
The second had three.
The third was a weather-beaten cottage on the Gulf Coast where nobody knew the Fontana name and the elderly neighbor cared more about her hibiscus plants than black SUVs.
There were no black SUVs.
No guards.
No Luca.
That last absence was both relief and wound.
He obeyed.
Not once did he contact her directly.
Eleanor delivered messages only when necessary.
Stahl was still searching.
Federal investigators had received portions of Antonio Gallo's ledger anonymously.
Vittorio Fontana had disappeared from public view.
Camille Laurent had entered protective custody.
And Luca had dismantled three companies tied to Stahl.
Giana asked no questions about how.
Then, at 3:08 on a rainy Thursday morning, her water broke.
“Eleanor.”
The attorney woke instantly.
“What?”
“I think it's time.”
They reached a small private hospital under the surname Garcia.
Labor lasted eleven hours.
Giana hated nearly all of them.
She hated breathing exercises.
She hated ice chips.
She hated Eleanor saying, “You're doing beautifully,” because there was nothing beautiful about threatening to murder the anesthesiologist.
And she hated that during the worst contraction of her life, she wanted Luca.
Not his money.
Not his guards.
Not the Fontana name.
His hand.
His ridiculous calm voice.
The way he rubbed circles against her wrist when she was frightened and pretending she wasn't.
At 2:16 p.m., her son was born.
Seven pounds, one ounce.
Dark hair.
Angry lungs.
Perfect fingers.
The nurse placed him against her chest.
Giana broke.
Every fear she had carried dissolved into tears.
“Hello.”
The baby quieted against her.
“I'm your mother.”
Her voice shook.
“And I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.”
Eleanor laughed through tears.
The nurse asked:
“Name?”
Giana had chosen one with Luca months ago.
Alessandro Antonio Fontana.
Alessandro for Luca's grandfather.
Antonio for her father.
She looked down.
“Antonio.”
Eleanor waited.
“Antonio Gallo.”
The decision hurt.
But it was hers.
That evening, Eleanor asked whether Luca should be informed.
Giana stared at her sleeping son.
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
She almost said no.
Instead:
“Send a photograph.”
Luca received it at 8:43 p.m.
He was standing inside an abandoned warehouse where investigators had just discovered records connecting Stahl's organization to twelve shell companies.
Marco handed him the encrypted phone.
Luca looked.
And the world disappeared.
His son slept against Giana's chest.
Tiny.
Dark-haired.
Alive.
Luca sat down.
Nobody in the warehouse spoke.
“What is his name?” he asked.
Marco checked the message.
“Antonio Gallo.”
The words struck exactly where they were meant to.
His son did not carry his surname.
Luca nodded.
“Good name.”
Marco looked away.
Luca enlarged the photograph.
Giana looked exhausted.
Beautiful.
Sad.
Alive.
He touched the screen once.
Then returned the phone.
“Tell Eleanor thank you.”
“You don't want to send anything?”
Luca thought for a long time.
“Yes.”
He dictated:
Tell Giana I will not ask where they are. Tell her Antonio is beautiful. Tell her I am sorry that the first thing I gave my son was a reason for his mother to run.
Giana read the message the next morning.
She cried.
Then she became angry because she cried.
Two days later, a package arrived through Eleanor.
Inside was no jewelry.
No expensive gift.
No demand.
Only Luca's signed relinquishment of control over every trust previously created for the baby.
Giana would be sole trustee.
A separate document transferred ownership of Gallo's Pastries' building to Giana.
She stared at it.
Luca had secretly purchased the building years earlier when the previous landlord threatened to sell.
He had never told her.
At first she was furious.
Then she read the attached note.
I bought the building because I was afraid someone else would take it from you. I understand now that keeping that secret meant I was still deciding what belonged to you. It is yours without conditions. Sell it, keep it, burn it. I will never claim it.
Giana folded the note.
Eleanor watched.
“He is either learning or has hired an excellent therapist.”
Despite herself, Giana laughed.
It was the first time since the attack.
Then the cottage window exploded.
Eleanor threw herself down.
Giana grabbed Antonio.
A bullet buried itself in the opposite wall.
“Floor!”
A second shot came.
Then silence.
Eleanor crawled toward her phone.
Giana shielded Antonio beneath her body.
His screaming filled the cottage.
Outside, tires tore across gravel.
Someone was leaving.
Not attacking.
Delivering a message.
Eleanor reached the shattered window.
An envelope lay on the porch.
Inside was a photograph of Luca.
Bound to a chair.
Blood on his face.
Giana stopped breathing.
Words were printed beneath it.
THE LEDGER FOR YOUR HUSBAND. MIDNIGHT TOMORROW. COME ALONE.
Eleanor looked at her.
“No.”
Giana's eyes remained on Luca's photograph.
“No what?”
“You are not going.”
“My father died because of that ledger.”
“And Luca chose his life.”
“He is Antonio's father.”
“He is also the reason Stahl found you.”
Giana looked down at her baby.
For weeks she had believed running was the opposite of weakness.
It was.
But there was another truth.
Running forever was not freedom either.
She handed Antonio to Eleanor.
“Call Camille.”
“Why?”
“Because her father and mine built the evidence together.”
May you like
Giana picked up the photograph.
“And if Preston Stahl thinks I'm bringing him one ledger, we're going to give him something much worse.”
