Chapter 1 - The Child That Shouldn’t Exist
Crimson pooled across white kitchen linoleum.
A stranger stood inches away, clutching a fresh gunshot wound. He wore a 3-piece suit worth more than her entire life. Coughing, he pointed a silver barrel directly at her chest.
“You are carrying my child,” he whispered before collapsing.
She stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She had never met this man.
She lived completely alone, yet her stomach churned violently. A positive pregnancy test sat hidden inside her bathroom cabinet.
Norah Gibson pressed her forehead against the cool glass of her living-room window.
Outside, Seattle was doing what it did best, drowning itself beneath relentless gray drizzle.
Her apartment smelled of burned toast and lemon bleach. It was a 5th-floor walk-up inside a neighborhood where sirens were the dominant birdsong, but it belonged to her.
More importantly, it was paid for.
She stepped away from the window and pressed 1 hand against her lower stomach.
It remained flat and unassuming beneath the faded cotton of her sweatpants, but a 9-week-old heartbeat moved inside her, completely unaware of the condition of Norah’s checking account.
She turned toward the kitchen counter.
A half-eaten sleeve of saltine crackers rested beside a stack of medical bills from the Genesis Fertility Clinic.
Norah was 31, single, and diagnosed with rapidly advancing endometriosis.
The physician had given her a bleak timeline.
“If you want to carry a child, Ms. Gibson, the window is closing.”
She drained her savings.
She selected Donor 404 from a sterile binder.
Blue eyes.
Graduate student.
Hobbies included hiking and playing the piano.
Safe.
Ordinary.
Hers.
A heavy metallic impact sounded inside the hallway.
Norah stopped with a cracker halfway toward her mouth.
Her neighbors on the 5th floor were a deaf retired nurse and a barista who worked night shifts.
Neither produced that kind of noise.
It sounded like a steel-toed shoe striking a baseboard.
Norah placed the cracker down.
The old floorboards moved beneath her while she approached the entrance.
She pressed 1 eye against the scratched brass peephole.
Nothing waited outside except the dim, flickering hallway light.
Then the deadbolt turned.
It did not click or rattle.
It rotated smoothly and silently, unlocked from outside by a key that was not hers.
Norah stumbled backward, her bare feet slipping against the inexpensive laminate.
She searched desperately for a weapon and seized the heavy cast-iron skillet resting over the stove.
Both hands closed around the handle.
Her breathing became shallow and rapid.
The door opened.
Three men crossed the threshold.
They moved with synchronized, quiet efficiency that turned Norah’s blood to ice.
They did not wear masks.
Dark tailored suits absorbed the weak light inside her apartment.
Two immediately separated, checking the small bathroom and open bedroom.
The 3rd man walked directly into the living room and stopped.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, soaked by rain. Water moved from his dark hair onto the shoulders of a charcoal wool coat.
His face looked carved from something hard and unforgiving.
A heavy jaw.
A slightly crooked nose that had clearly been broken and reset.
A pale, uneven scar dividing his left eyebrow.
His eyes were the color of wet slate.
He did not look angry.
He looked exhausted.
“The kitchen is clear,” 1 of the men reported while leaving the narrow galley.
“Bedroom clear,” the other said.
The scarred man never removed his eyes from Norah.
His attention moved briefly toward the skillet shaking inside her grip.
A muscle moved inside his jaw.
“Put down the pan, Norah.”
His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the small room.
Norah’s knuckles had become white.
“Get out.”
Her shaking voice betrayed her.
She planted her feet more firmly.
“My telephone is inside my pocket.”
It was a lie.
The device rested over the sofa approximately 3 ft away.
“I already dialed 911.”
She tightened her hands around the skillet.
“My thumb is over the call button.”
The man knew she was lying.
He looked briefly toward the sofa and then back toward her.
“If you contacted police, they would not arrive in time.”
His voice remained flat.
“If they did, my men would shoot them.”
He indicated the pan with his chin.
“Put it down.”
“You will injure your wrist.”
Norah did not move.
“Who are you?”
He slowly reached inside his coat.
Norah raised the skillet higher, expecting a weapon.
Instead, he removed a thick manila envelope and threw it over the scratched coffee table.
It landed heavily.
“My name is Dante Lombardi.”
He opened his coat, revealing a dark suit and the unmistakable outline of a shoulder holster.
“And you are pregnant with my child.”
The room seemed to rotate.
A violent wave of nausea struck Norah, separate from the morning sickness.
She lowered the skillet slightly while her mind struggled to arrange the words.
“You are insane.”
Her voice became a breath.
“I have never seen you before.”
“I know.”
Dante moved 1 step forward.
Wet marks appeared beneath his shoes.
“I had never seen you before yesterday.”
His attention moved toward the envelope.
“Open the file.”
“I am not touching anything.”
Norah moved backward until her shoulders struck the wall beside the refrigerator.
“I used a clinic.”
She held the skillet between them.
“A sperm bank.”
Her breathing became uneven.
“Donor 404.”
“He is a college student.”
“He plays the piano.”
Dante released a short and humorless breath.
“Donor 404 is fictional.”
His eyes stayed over hers.
“The clinic lied.”
He indicated 1 of his men.
The younger man had a buzz cut and a neck tattoo rising above his collar.
He moved forward, collected the envelope, and spread its contents over the coffee table.
Norah could not prevent herself from looking.
Even from across the room, she recognized the blue logo belonging to the Genesis Fertility Clinic.
The documents were not her ordinary patient forms.
They were internal records and chain-of-custody documentation.
A photograph of Dante Lombardi had been attached to the 1st page.
He appeared younger and paler and wore a hospital gown.
“I had stage 3 leukemia 5 years ago.”
Dante’s voice contained no self-pity.
“Before radiation treatment, I preserved a sample.”
He continued.
“It remained inside a private cryogenic facility in Chicago.”
“Two months ago, a shell corporation purchased that facility.”
Norah stared at him.
Her heart beat violently.
“I do not understand.”
“The shell company belongs to my uncle, Carmine.”
Dante’s slate-colored eyes remained fixed over her.
“Carmine and I are involved in a dispute.”
He paused.
“A violent one.”
Dante’s expression did not change.
“I do not have a wife.”
“I do not have children.”
“I possess no vulnerability he can exploit.”
A thick, calloused finger pointed toward her stomach.
“So he created one.”
Norah dropped the skillet.
It struck the floor hard enough to dent the laminate.
No one moved.
“No.”
She shook her head and wrapped both arms around herself.
“No.”
Her voice weakened.
“That is a film plot.”
“That does not happen.”
Norah looked toward the documents.
“The Food and Drug Administration regulates clinics.”
“The paperwork—”
“Paperwork is paper.”
Dante interrupted roughly.
“Paper can be purchased.”
“Physicians can be bribed.”
His gaze stayed over her.
“Carmine transported my sample to Seattle.”
“He paid the director of your clinic to replace the donor you selected.”
Dante’s voice became colder.
“He selected you because you are single, possess no immediate family, and live inside a building without security.”
He looked around the apartment.
“You were the perfect incubator.”
The sterile brutality of the word broke something inside her.
“Get out of my apartment.”
Norah moved away from the wall.
Fear remained inside her, cold and sharp, but anger rose to meet it.
“I do not care who your uncle is.”
“I do not care about your family conflict.”
Her hands moved protectively toward her stomach.
“This is my baby.”
“Mine.”
Dante crossed the room in 3 long steps.
Norah gasped and moved backward.
He did not touch her.
He stood over her, carrying the smell of rain, old cigarette smoke, and something metallic.
“It stopped being only your child the moment my DNA became involved.”
His voice dropped into a quiet and dangerous register.
“Carmine knows you are pregnant.”
“He allowed me to discover the records because he wanted me to know that he possesses my heir.”
Dante’s eyes hardened.
“He intends to take the child after birth and use it to control my syndicate.”
His mouth tightened.
“He will not leave you alive afterward.”
Norah’s breath caught.
She searched his face for a lie or weakness inside the intimidation.
There was only cold certainty.
“Pack a bag.”
Dante turned away.
“You have 5 minutes.”
Norah remained still.
The world tilted around her, turning the predictable pieces of her life into something unrecognizable.
“I am not going with you.”
Her voice sounded thin.
Dante stood beside the living-room window and examined the street through the blinds.
“You have no choice.”
“Of course I have a choice.”
Panic became outrage.
She indicated the 2 armed men near her entrance.
“This is kidnapping.”
“You are kidnapping me.”
“If I intended to kidnap you, I would have placed a bag over your head inside the grocery-store parking lot.”
Dante released the blind and faced her.
“I entered through the front door to provide an explanation.”
He looked directly at her.
“Do not mistake courtesy for negotiation.”
Dante returned to the coffee table, lifted the file, and held it toward her.
“Look.”
Norah hesitated before seizing it.
Her fingers shook while she examined the pages.
Much of the medical terminology was unfamiliar, but the names were clear.
May you like
Her name.
Her patient number.
