Chapter 2 - The Mafia Boss Searched Every Hospital in Miami for His Missing Pregnant Wife—Then Her Lawyer Warned Him One More Call Would Cost Him His SonLuca found my lawyer before he found me.
Technically, he didn't find Daniel Mercer.
Everyone in Miami legal circles knew Daniel.
He had represented my mother during probate and me when I bought the bakery building.
At eight that morning, Luca walked into Daniel's office with Enzo behind him.
Daniel later described the entrance as “what happens when a hurricane learns tailoring.”
“Where is my wife?”
Daniel didn't look up from his coffee.
“Good morning, Mr. Fontana.”
“Where is she?”
“Safe.”
“My son?”
“Also safe.”
“I want to speak to her.”
“No.”
Luca stared.
Daniel drank coffee.
People underestimated Daniel because he was sixty-three, wore bow ties, and collected antique fountain pens.
My father once said Daniel could tell a man to go to hell in a way that made him ask for directions.
“Give me her number.”
“No.”
“I’m not asking.”
Daniel finally looked up.
“That's exactly your problem.”
Enzo apparently looked at the floor to hide a reaction.
Luca did not.
“What did you say?”
“Your wife left instructions.”
Daniel opened a folder.
“If you attempt to locate her through private investigators, employee records, law enforcement contacts, financial surveillance, phone tracking, medical systems, or any other method unavailable to an ordinary separated spouse, I have instructions to file for an emergency protective order.”
Luca's face went cold.
“You think a piece of paper—”
“Careful.”
Daniel leaned back.
“The next sentence determines whether I call Giana and tell her you listened or tell her you threatened her attorney.”
Silence.
Luca sat.
That was the first victory.
Not mine.
His.
He chose the chair instead of the threat.
Daniel continued:
“You may send communications through me.”
“When can I see her?”
“When she chooses.”
“My son could be born any day.”
“Yes.”
“I have a right to know.”
“You have legal rights that will be addressed appropriately.”
“Daniel.”
“Mr. Fontana.”
“Is she afraid of me?”
Daniel paused.
“She's afraid of what you believe love permits you to do.”
That hurt Luca more than anger would have.
I know because Daniel told me later.
At the time, I was 186 miles away.
Key Largo.
A small rental house belonging to Daniel's sister.
No staff.
No guards with Fontana names.
Sofia came with me for the first two days.
Then she left because staying would eventually create a trail.
I sat on a screened porch listening to palm leaves move.
My side hurt.
My heart hurt worse.
My son kicked constantly.
I called him Peanut because Luca hated the nickname.
That made me use it more.
“You and I are going to have a quiet month,” I told my stomach.
Peanut kicked.
“That's the spirit.”
The bakery was destroyed.
Insurance called.
Employees called.
Mateo called twelve times.
Mom's old recipe books survived because I kept them in a fireproof cabinet.
I cried when I learned that.
Not when I lost the building.
The recipes.
That broke me.
Then Daniel called.
“He came.”
“Luca?”
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“Started at organized-crime intimidation. Ended at sitting politely.”
I almost laughed.
“Did he threaten you?”
“Almost.”
“Daniel.”
“He stopped.”
That mattered.
I hated that it mattered.
“Did he ask about the baby?”
“First thing after you.”
I closed my eyes.
“Don't tell me things designed to make me forgive him.”
“I don't design forgiveness.”
“Good.”
“I bill hourly.”
That made me laugh.
Then Daniel became serious.
“He left something.”
“What?”
“A letter.”
“No.”
“You don't have to read it.”
“Destroy it.”
“I won't.”
“Why?”
“Because you may want it later.”
“I won't.”
“Then I'll destroy it later.”
Infuriating man.
For twelve days, Luca obeyed.
No men.
No tracking.
No surprise appearances.
No calls to Molly because there was no Molly in this story.
No pressure through Sofia.
Nothing.
He sent one letter each morning through Daniel.
I read none.
On day thirteen, I woke at 3:17 a.m. with contractions.
Too early.
Not terribly early.
Still early.
I called my doctor.
Then Daniel.
Then Sofia.
Not Luca.
That decision hurt.
At the hospital, contractions intensified.
Doctors tried to slow them.
Peanut disagreed.
At 8:42 a.m., my son was born.
Five pounds, six ounces.
Angry.
Beautiful.
Loud.
I cried so hard I couldn't see.
When they put him against my chest, I whispered:
“Matteo.”
Not Mateo from the bakery.
Matteo Gallo Fontana.
My mother's maiden history.
His father's name.
Both worlds.
Both choices.
For two hours, I stared at him.
Then guilt arrived.
Luca didn't know.
Whatever he had done to me, this was his son.
I called Daniel.
“Tell him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Can he come?”
I looked at Matteo.
My tiny son.
“No.”
A pause.
“Okay.”
“Send him a picture.”
“Giana.”
“One.”
“Okay.”
“And tell him he's healthy.”
“I will.”
Daniel called Luca.
Apparently Luca answered on the first ring.
“She's in labor?”
“No.”
Silence.
Then Daniel said:
“Your son was born at 8:42.”
Luca didn't speak.
“Five pounds, six ounces. Stable. Healthy.”
Still nothing.
Then Daniel heard something strange.
Luca Fontana crying.
Not quietly.
Not elegantly.
The most feared man in Miami sat down on the floor of his office and cried because his son had entered the world somewhere he was not permitted to know.
Daniel sent the photograph.
Luca looked at it for forty-three minutes.
Enzo later told Sofia.
Sofia told me.
Family information networks were impossible.
That afternoon, Luca sent no demand.
No question.
Only a message.
THANK YOU FOR TELLING ME HE IS SAFE.
I cried.
Then another.
IF YOU DECIDE I MAY KNOW HIS NAME, I WOULD BE GRATEFUL.
I stared.
Not “What's my son's name?”
Not “I deserve to know.”
If you decide.
I typed through Daniel:
MATTEO GALLO FONTANA.
The response came:
PERFECT.
Then:
PLEASE TELL HIM HIS FATHER LOVES HIM.
I did.
Because that truth belonged to Matteo even if my marriage did not survive.
Three weeks later, Camille Voss contacted me.
I nearly hung up.
“Don't.”
“That's a poor opening.”
“I need five minutes.”
“You had Luca's five minutes.”
Silence.
Then:
“He didn't save me because I was his mistress.”
“Former.”
“I haven't been his mistress in six years.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you keep calling me that in your head?”
I hated her immediately for being perceptive.
“What do you want?”
“To tell you what was on the drive.”
“I don't care.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because Preston Stahl didn't attack the estate to kill Luca.”
My body went cold.
“He attacked it to kill you.”
I sat.
“What?”
“The bakery attack was supposed to force Luca to move you to the estate.”
“He did the opposite.”
“Yes.”
“So why attack both?”
“Backup plan.”
“Why me?”
Camille became quiet.
“Your father.”
My heart stopped.
“My father has been dead eleven years.”
“Yes.”
“What does he have to do with Stahl?”
“Everything.”
My father, Antonio Gallo, had not simply lost the family's money through bad investments.
Years earlier, he had helped document a trafficking and weapons network moving through Caribbean shipping routes.
He intended to give the records to federal investigators.
He died before he could.
Car accident.
I had always believed it was an accident.
Camille didn't.
Neither did Luca.
That was the secret my husband had hidden from me.
“He knew?”
“For two years.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“He knew my father may have been murdered?”
“Yes.”
“And said nothing.”
“He was trying to prove it.”
“He had no right.”
“I agree.”
That surprised me.
Camille continued:
“Stahl believes Antonio left a copy of the records with you.”
“I've never seen anything.”
“He doesn't believe that.”
“Why?”
“Because your father named the archive after you.”
My blood went cold.
“What archive?”
“Project Gianna.”
My name was Giana.
One n.
Dad always joked everyone added the second.
“That's not me.”
“What?”
“My father spelled my name correctly.”
Silence.
Camille whispered:
“Then we have a problem.”
“Why?”
“Because the file says GIANNA.”
Two n's.
It wasn't named for me.
Then who?
I knew one Gianna.
My grandmother's younger sister.
Gianna Gallo.
She had disappeared from Miami in 1989.
Family story said she ran away with a married man.
I had never believed much of it.
“Where is Luca?”
“At the marina.”
“Does he know about the spelling?”
“No.”
“Don't tell him yet.”
Camille laughed softly.
“You sound like your husband.”
“Don't insult me.”
Then my hospital room door opened.
Daniel entered.
His face pale.
“What?”
He held out his phone.
Security footage from Gallo's destroyed bakery.
Workers had begun clearing debris.
Behind the old oven, they found a steel door built into the wall.
A hidden compartment.
Inside was a photograph of my father standing beside Gianna Gallo.
And Preston Stahl.
Taken twenty-eight years earlier.
On the back, my father's handwriting:
IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, GIANA MUST NEVER TRUST THE FONTANAS WITH THIS.
I stared at the sentence until the letters blurred.
May you like
My father had left me a warning.
And it named my husband's family.
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