Chapter 2 - THE BABY HE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO FIND
“Go back to the grill, buddy. Stay there.”
Frankie’s warning should have frightened Mr. Henderson into silence.
Instead, the sixty-year-old diner manager looked at Clara.
Then at her stomach.
Then back at Vincent.
Whatever he saw in Clara’s face made him put the spatula down.
“She said you can’t be back there.”
The entire diner seemed to stop breathing.
Frankie slowly turned.
Vincent raised one hand.
“Enough.”
Frankie stepped back.
Clara hated the relief that moved through her.
Eight months away, and some part of her body still remembered that one gesture from Vincent Rossy could stop three armed men from moving.
That was exactly why she had left.
Vincent approached.
The broken coffee pot lay between them.
Steam rose from black liquid spreading across the floor.
His expensive shoe stood in it.
He did not seem to notice.
“How far along?”
Clara looked away.
“Go back to your booth.”
“How far along?”
“You lost the right to ask.”
Something moved in his jaw.
“Clara.”
She grabbed a roll of paper towels.
Anything to keep her hands busy.
“I’m working.”
“Your shift is over.”
“You don’t own the diner.”
His expression hardened.
“I wasn’t talking about the diner.”
There it was.
The old Vincent.
The man who treated decisions like territories waiting to be claimed.
Clara straightened despite the ache in her back.
“You don’t own me either.”
Frankie looked at the ceiling.
Dino pretended to inspect the sugar dispensers.
Nobody who knew Vincent spoke to him like that.
Except Clara.
Maybe that was why he had married her.
Maybe that was why she had eventually left.
Vincent’s gaze dropped to her abdomen again.
The baby kicked visibly beneath the stretched fabric of her blouse.
His face changed.
For one second, the ruthless head of the Rossy Syndicate disappeared.
A man remained.
A shocked man.
A hurt man.
“Is it mine?”
Clara flinched.
Vincent saw it.
Regret entered his expression immediately.
He lowered his voice.
“I shouldn’t have asked it that way.”
“No.”
“When?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Clara, please.”
The word please sounded strange coming from him.
He rarely needed it.
The baby kicked again.
Clara placed a protective hand over the movement.
Vincent watched.
His voice became rough.
“You were pregnant when you left?”
“No.”
That stopped him.
“I found out three weeks later.”
Vincent went completely still.
Eight months apart.
Thirty-four weeks pregnant.
The arithmetic completed itself behind his eyes.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“No.”
Frankie looked away.
Dino did too.
There were some betrayals even bodyguards did not want to witness.
Vincent took one slow breath.
“Why?”
Clara stared at him.
“You really want to have that conversation beside a broken coffee pot at two in the morning?”
“Yes.”
Of course he did.
“Too bad.”
She bent to pick up pieces of glass.
A sharp pain suddenly tightened around her abdomen.
Clara froze.
Her hand went to the counter.
Vincent noticed instantly.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Clara.”
“Braxton Hicks.”
“You’re in pain.”
“I’ve been pregnant for eight months. That happens.”
He moved toward her.
She raised one hand.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
The restraint surprised her.
The old Vincent would have called a doctor before she finished the sentence and put her in a car whether she agreed or not.
He stared at her for another moment.
Then he took off his overcoat.
“What are you doing?”
“Covering you.”
“I’m not cold.”
He looked down.
Clara followed his gaze.
Coffee had soaked the lower half of her uniform.
The yellow apron clung wetly to her legs.
A piece of glass had sliced the side of her cheap sneaker.
A thin line of blood showed through the fabric.
Vincent’s expression darkened.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Your foot is bleeding.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“Clara.”
She almost laughed.
“Eight months and you still think saying my name in that voice counts as an argument.”
His mouth tightened.
Then the front window exploded.
Clara screamed.
Vincent hit her before she understood what had happened.
Not struck her.
Covered her.
His body slammed into hers, driving both of them behind the counter as glass shattered over the booths.
Frankie drew a weapon.
Dino overturned a table.
“DOWN!”
The sleeping truckers woke shouting.
Mr. Henderson dropped behind the grill.
A second shot punched through the front window.
Vincent covered Clara’s head with both arms.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Baby?”
“I don’t know!”
The words came out as a sob.
Another contraction tightened.
Harder.
Clara grabbed Vincent’s shirt.
He looked down.
Her face terrified him.
“Frankie!”
“Vehicle outside! Dark sedan!”
A third shot came through the glass.
Then tires screamed.
The car disappeared into the rain.
Silence returned almost as violently as the gunfire had arrived.
Frankie moved to the shattered window.
Dino headed for the side exit.
Vincent stayed on the floor.
Clara realized she was half beneath him, her belly protected between his arms and the counter.
His hand hovered over her stomach.
He did not touch without permission.
That tiny detail almost broke her.
“Clara.”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
His face lost color.
She took several breaths.
The tightening slowly eased.
Not labor.
Probably not.
Vincent looked at her injured shoe.
Blood.
Glass.
Cheap polyester.
Raw hands.
The woman who had once worn silk beside him at charity galas had been standing eight-hour shifts while carrying his child.
Something dangerous entered his face.
Clara recognized it.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
“You have no idea what I’m thinking.”
“Yes, I do. Someone shot at us, so now you want to make three phone calls and burn half the city down.”
Frankie returned before Vincent could answer.
“Boss.”
Something in his voice changed the room.
Vincent stood.
“What?”
Frankie held a brass shell casing inside a folded diner napkin.
“Shooter left more than bullets.”
He pointed toward the sidewalk.
Dino had found a small white envelope pushed beneath the diner door.
Vincent opened it.
Clara watched his face.
“What?”
He gave her the note.
Only one sentence had been typed across the paper.
ROSSY BLOOD DOES NOT GET ANOTHER GENERATION.
Clara’s knees weakened.
Vincent caught her elbow.
This time she did not pull away.
“That wasn’t for you,” she whispered.
Vincent looked at the shattered glass.
“No.”
His eyes returned to her stomach.
“It was for the baby.”
Clara felt the diner shrink around her.
Eight months earlier she had disappeared because she believed distance would keep this child away from Vincent’s enemies.
She had worked under a fake shortened surname.
Paid cash for prenatal appointments.
Changed motels twice before Mr. Henderson rented her the tiny room above his sister’s garage.
She had done everything right.
And somehow they had found her anyway.
Vincent read the message again.
Then looked at Frankie.
“Who knew I was coming here?”
“Three people.”
“Names.”
“Me. Dino. Julian.”
Clara’s breath caught.
Vincent noticed.
“What?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Clara.”
She hated that he still knew her face.
“What do you know about Julian?”
Vincent’s expression changed.
Julian Marchesi was more than Vincent’s consigliere.
He had been Vincent’s father’s closest friend.
He had attended their wedding.
He had negotiated their divorce.
And eight months earlier, when Clara found the first threat left inside her bedroom, Julian was the man she had taken it to.
The man who told her she was overreacting.
The man who told her Vincent had probably ordered the frightening security exercise himself.
Clara stared at the note in her hands.
Maybe she had not escaped Vincent’s reach eight months ago.
Maybe she had escaped someone standing directly beside his throne.
“I need to tell you something,” she whispered.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
Clara looked toward Frankie and Dino.
“Not here.”
Vincent removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders.
This time she allowed it.
Outside, police sirens were approaching.
Vincent’s voice became quiet.
“Then we go somewhere safe.”
Clara looked directly at him.
“There is no somewhere safe in your world.”
He absorbed the accusation without defending himself.
Then he looked at the broken diner window.
May you like
“At the moment,” he said, “apparently there isn’t one in yours either.”
And for the first time since she disappeared, Clara had no answer.
