Chapter 11 - SOPHIA’S LAST LIE
Z
Isabella came home twenty-six days after she was born.
I had imagined that moment every night.
The reality was better.
And scarier.
She weighed five pounds, two ounces.
Her doctors gave us instructions that filled an entire binder.
Feeding schedule.
Medication.
Temperature checks.
Warning signs.
Follow-up appointments.
Vincent memorized everything.
I caught him studying the binder at three in the morning.
“You know we’re allowed to sleep,” I said.
He looked up.
“What if she stops breathing?”
“The monitor alarms.”
“What if the monitor breaks?”
“Then one of us notices.”
“What if we don’t?”
I stared at him.
The man terrified half of Chicago and was losing a war against a five-pound infant’s breathing pattern.
“Vincent.”
“What?”
“You have anxiety.”
“I have awareness.”
“You checked whether she was breathing seven times in twenty minutes.”
“Eight.”
I laughed.
He didn’t.
I softened.
“She’s okay.”
His eyes moved toward the bassinet.
“I know.”
He didn’t.
Neither did I.
That was parenthood, apparently.
Love mixed with terror and sleep deprivation.
Sophia remained missing.
Police believed she had help.
Marco Ricci, now in federal custody, insisted he had stopped communicating with her.
Then a package arrived.
No explosives.
No dangerous substances.
Just a flash drive.
Inside was a video.
Sophia sat in a dark room facing the camera.
Her hair was shorter.
No makeup.
No tears.
“Hello, Vincent.”
I was beside him when he watched.
“You probably think I betrayed you for Marco.”
She smiled.
“You’re wrong.”
Vincent’s face remained expressionless.
“Marco was useful. Just like you were useful.”
The smile vanished.
“You promised me when my father died that I would always have a place in your life. Then Claire came.”
My stomach tightened.
“You married her. Put her name on things that should have belonged to your family. Gave her a future I was supposed to have.”
Vincent shook his head.
“I never promised you marriage.”
The woman in the recording continued, unable to hear him.
“I wanted Claire gone because she made you weak.”
Then Sophia leaned closer to the camera.
“But I didn’t cause her premature labor.”
I blinked.
“That was luck.”
Her smile returned.
“I only sent the photographs.”
My hands curled.
“As for the calls…”
Sophia shrugged.
“Yes. I declined them.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“I wanted one night where you chose me without her interrupting.”
Her face twisted with resentment.
“And you did.”
The video ended.
For a full minute, neither Vincent nor I spoke.
Then he stood.
“I need air.”
He went to the balcony.
I followed eventually.
Chicago spread below us.
Lights.
Cars.
Thousands of lives continuing while ours seemed trapped inside one terrible month.
“She’s wrong,” I said.
Vincent looked at me.
“About what?”
“She says I made you weak.”
He laughed without humor.
“I was weak long before you.”
I leaned against the railing.
“She also says she didn’t cause the labor.”
“She knew the photographs could hurt you.”
“But we may never prove she intended the medical outcome.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Can you live with that?”
His jaw tightened.
“I don’t get to choose which truth is easiest.”
That was another new sentence.
“Did you love her?”
He shook his head.
“Not romantically.”
“Did part of you enjoy making me jealous?”
He looked surprised.
I waited.
Eventually he answered.
“Yes.”
That honesty hurt.
“Why?”
“Because you stopped reacting to me.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“By our fourth year, you had become… quiet.”
“Because arguing with you changed nothing.”
“I know that now.”
“So you let Sophia hang on your arm because you wanted a reaction?”
“Sometimes.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That’s pathetic.”
“Yes.”
No defense.
Again.
I almost hated him for making anger difficult.
“I wanted proof you still cared,” he said. “Instead of asking whether you were unhappy.”
“You were thirty-six, not sixteen.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know.”
“All right.”
I sighed.
He looked at the skyline.
“I’m in therapy.”
My head turned so quickly my neck hurt.
“What?”
“Twice a week.”
“Vincent Moretti is seeing a therapist?”
“He has terrible hours.”
I laughed.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I can dismantle businesses, negotiate contracts, and identify a lie from across a room.”
His eyes met mine.
“But apparently I had no idea how to be married.”
That night changed something.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But perhaps respect.
At 2:17 a.m., Isabella started crying.
Vincent reached her first.
He lifted her with surprising confidence.
“Hey, piccolina.”
She screamed louder.
He looked offended.
“She doesn’t like me.”
“She’s hungry.”
“Same thing.”
I prepared a bottle while he walked her around the kitchen.
For one strange, beautiful moment, we looked like a normal family.
Then the secure elevator alarm sounded.
Vincent froze.
The display showed someone trying to access our floor.
Security called immediately.
A woman had entered the lobby.
No identification.
Black coat.
Short hair.
Vincent handed Isabella to me.
“Go to your room.”
My heart pounded.
“Is it her?”
His phone rang.
He answered.
Then his face changed.
“She’s asking for me.”
“Sophia?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Vincent listened.
A long silence.
Then he looked at me.
“She says she wants to surrender.”
I held Isabella closer.
“Do you believe her?”
“No.”
May you like
Neither did I.
We were both right.
