Chapter 8 - THE MAN WHO FINALLY KNOCKED
Z
The hospital became a fortress.
That was the only description.
Two uniformed officers outside the NICU.
Hospital security at every elevator.
Vincent’s men outside without weapons because I refused to have guns anywhere near premature infants.
Vincent argued for exactly thirty seconds.
Then I said, “My daughter, my rule.”
He corrected me.
“Our daughter.”
I stared at him.
He added quietly, “But your rule is fair.”
Progress.
Small, irritating progress.
I was discharged six days after Isabella was born.
She stayed.
Leaving the hospital without my baby nearly broke me.
I stood by the elevator crying so hard that Vincent quietly sent everyone else away.
“I can’t leave her.”
“You’re not leaving her.”
“I’m going home without her.”
“You need to recover.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No.”
He did not offer empty reassurance anymore.
That was new too.
My old home was not where I went.
Three months before filing for divorce, I had rented a furnished apartment downtown through Elena.
Vincent discovered it only when the driver asked for the address.
He looked at me.
“You already had somewhere else.”
“Yes.”
“You planned all of this.”
“Yes.”
His face registered another small wound.
I refused to feel guilty.
The apartment had two bedrooms.
Modest by Moretti standards.
Beautiful by mine.
Warm wood floors.
Cream walls.
A kitchen that smelled like whatever I wanted to cook.
No white carpet.
No silent rules.
No husband inspecting fingerprints on glass.
Vincent entered carrying my bag.
Then stopped.
There was a yellow blanket across the couch.
A coffee mug on the table.
A stack of magazines.
Real life.
Mess.
He looked around.
“You like this?”
“I love it.”
He absorbed that.
“This place is about one-tenth the size of our house.”
“Our house felt like a museum.”
His eyes dropped.
“I didn’t know.”
“I told you.”
He nodded.
“Right.”
That became one of Vincent’s most painful habits.
Every time he said I didn’t know, he remembered I had tried to tell him.
He put my bag beside the bedroom.
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“I arranged security downstairs.”
My head snapped toward him.
“Vincent.”
“Two men. Lobby only. You won’t see them.”
“I don’t want to be watched.”
“They’re protecting you from Sophia.”
I hated that he was right.
“For how long?”
“Until she’s found.”
“Not forever.”
“Not forever.”
He headed toward the door.
Then stopped.
“Can I visit tomorrow?”
“For Isabella?”
“She’s in the hospital.”
“I mean me.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
He looked almost embarrassed.
“To bring food.”
“You’ve never brought me food in five years.”
“I know.”
“What changed?”
His answer was simple.
“You almost died.”
I folded my arms.
“That can’t be the only reason you learn how to be decent.”
“It isn’t.”
He looked at me.
“I’m trying to figure out what kind of man I am when nobody is forced to stay with me.”
That sentence followed me for hours.
The next evening, he knocked.
Actually knocked.
Vincent Moretti, who had once entered every room he owned without hesitation, stood outside an apartment legally rented by his wife and waited.
I opened the door.
He held a paper bag.
“Soup.”
I stared at him.
“You’re obsessed with soup now.”
“I was told it’s easy on your stomach.”
“By whom?”
“Three nurses and a dietitian.”
I almost smiled.
He entered after I stepped aside.
We ate at the small kitchen table.
For once, there was no staff.
No Sophia.
No phones beside the plates.
Eventually I asked the question I had avoided.
“Why did you marry me?”
His spoon stopped.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He thought about it.
Not the answer I expected.
“I loved you.”
“Loved?”
“Love.”
I looked away.
“But I think I loved you badly.”
“That’s not romantic.”
“It isn’t supposed to be.”
He leaned back.
“I grew up believing providing was the same as loving. My father never hugged my mother, but she had diamonds. He never listened to her, but she had drivers and houses. When you complained, I thought you were ungrateful.”
“I didn’t want diamonds.”
“I know that now.”
“I wanted you to pick me.”
He looked down.
“I know.”
“And you didn’t.”
“No.”
The apartment became quiet.
Then Vincent’s phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
“Answer it.”
He did.
Luca spoke for less than fifteen seconds.
Vincent’s face changed completely.
“What hospital entrance?”
I stood.
“What?”
Vincent ended the call.
“Sophia was caught on a camera six blocks from the hospital.”
My skin went cold.
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Isabella.”
“She’s protected.”
“I’m going.”
“You’re still recovering.”
“I said I’m going.”
He opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
“Okay.”
We reached the hospital eleven minutes later.
Police were searching two floors.
Sophia was nowhere.
Isabella was safe.
I nearly collapsed with relief.
Then a nurse handed me a white envelope.
“This was left at the NICU desk.”
My name was written across the front.
CLAIRE.
Vincent took one look and called security.
Police opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Me.
Vincent.
Standing over Isabella’s incubator the previous morning.
Taken through the NICU glass.
On the back, Sophia had written one sentence.
May you like
You took my family.
Now I’ll take yours.
