CHAPTER 3: SIX MONTHS LATER
LUCIAN'S POV
Milan, Italy - Six Months After New York
The man's screams echoed through the stone walls of the basement, but Lucian Romano felt nothing.
He stood in the corner of his punishment house, a soundproofed room hidden beneath his sprawling mansion, watching as Marco worked over the traitor strapped to the chair. Blood dripped onto the concrete floor, pooling beneath the man's feet.
"Please," the man sobbed, his face a mess of bruises and blood. "Please, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"You didn't mean to sell information about my shipments to the Calabrese family?" Lucian's voice was cold, detached. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, savoring the burn. "You didn't mean to get three of my men killed?"
"I needed the money, boss. My daughter, she's sick, I—"
"Lies." Lucian set his glass down and walked forward, his expensive shoes clicking against the bloody floor. He crouched in front of the man, meeting his terrified eyes. "I paid for your daughter's treatment myself. Covered every medical bill. Gave you a bonus to help with expenses."
The man's face crumpled. "I know, I know, I just—"
"You got greedy." Lucian stood, brushing invisible dust from his suit jacket. "You thought you could take my money AND the Calabrese money. You thought I wouldn't find out."
"I'm sorry! I'll pay it back, I'll—"
"I hate liars," Lucian said softly, and something in his tone made the man freeze. "More than anything else in this world, I hate people who lie to me."
He nodded to Marco, who stepped forward with a pair of pliers.
Lucian turned away as the man's screams intensified. He'd seen this too many times. Done it himself too many times. The violence didn't move him anymore.
Nothing moved him anymore.
Except for her.
Six months. It had been six months since that night in New York, and he still couldn't get her out of his head.
Kora.
The name was burned into his brain. The feel of her skin. The sound of her voice. The way she'd looked at him like he was just a man, not a monster.
He'd hired five different investigators. Spent hundreds of thousands of dollars. Searched every database, every record, every possible lead.
Nothing.
It was like she'd never existed.
"Boss?" Marco's voice cut through his thoughts. "He's passed out."
Lucian turned back. The traitor hung limply in the chair, unconscious from the pain.
"Wake him up. I want him to feel everything before he dies."
"Yes, boss."
Lucian left the punishment house, climbing the stone stairs back to the main level of his mansion. His hands were clean, he hadn't touched the traitor himself tonight, but he could still smell the blood, the fear.
It used to bother him. Years ago, when he'd first taken over from his father, the violence had made him sick.
Now it was just Tuesday.
He walked through his mansion, all marble floors and priceless art and empty rooms, and poured himself another drink in his study. The investigators' latest reports sat on his desk, and he forced himself to read through them again even though he'd memorized every word.
No record of anyone named Kora matching the description in New York area.
Expanded search to entire East Coast, no results.
Possible the name was an alias.
Of course it was an alias. He'd known that from the start, had seen it in her eyes when she'd told him. But knowing it didn't make it any easier to find her.
His phone buzzed. A text from one of his captains: Luca's been making noise again. Talking to the Rossi family.
Lucian's jaw clenched. His half-brother. Six months, and Luca still hadn't learned his lesson.
Handle it, he texted back. I don't care how.
Another buzz. This one from Venessa: Dinner tomorrow. The Marchetti family wants to discuss a potential alliance. Their daughter will be there.
Lucian deleted the message without responding.
He knew exactly what that meant. Venessa was trying to marry him off again, trying to forge alliances through marriage like this was the fucking Middle Ages.
He'd told her a hundred times he wasn't interested.
But Venessa never listened.
His stepmother. The woman who'd poisoned his real mother and put her in a coma. The woman who'd destroyed his family so she could install her own son as heir.
Lucian hated her with a cold, burning intensity that never faded.
But he couldn't kill her. Not yet. Not without proof of what she'd done.
So he tolerated her. Kept her at arm's length. And waited for the day he'd have enough evidence to make her pay.
The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beep of machines.
Lucian sat in the chair beside his mother's bed, holding her hand. She looked peaceful, almost like she was just sleeping. But she'd been sleeping for six years now.
Six years since the food poisoning that had put her in a coma.
Food poisoning. That's what the doctors had called it. A tragic accident.
But Lucian knew better.
Venessa had done this. He didn't have proof, couldn't prove it in court, but he knew.
And someday, he'd make her pay.
"Ciao, Mama," he said softly, his thumb stroking across her knuckles. This was the only place he let his guard down, the only place he allowed himself to be vulnerable. "I'm sorry it's been a few days. Things have been busy."
The machines beeped steadily. His mother didn't respond. She never did.
"I met someone," he found himself saying, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "In New York. Six months ago now."
He told her everything. About seeing Kora on the dance floor. About the connection he'd felt instantly. About the night they'd shared.
About how she'd vanished and he couldn't find her.
"I know it's crazy," he said, staring at his mother's peaceful face. "One night with a woman I don't even know. But Mama, she made me feel human again. Like I could be more than this." He gestured vaguely at himself, at the blood probably still on his shoes from the punishment house. "More than what Papa made me."
His mother had hated what his father had turned him into. Hated the violence, the cruelty. She'd begged Lucian to leave, to get out of the family business.
But he couldn't. The Romano name was a chain around his neck, and there was no escaping it.
"I'll find her," he promised, squeezing his mother's hand gently. "I don't know how, but I will. And maybe she can help me be the man you wanted me to be."
The machines beeped.
His mother slept.
Lucian sat there for another hour, just holding her hand, before finally forcing himself to leave.
"You're not going to find her."
Marco's voice was careful, measured, as they drove back to the mansion. He'd learned over the years how to deliver bad news to Lucian without getting his head bitten off.
"We'll keep searching," Lucian said, staring out the window at the Milan streets passing by.
"Boss, it's been six months. We've exhausted every lead. If she doesn't want to be found—"
"She doesn't even know I'm looking for her." Lucian's voice was sharp. "She thinks I abandoned her. She doesn't know about the note, the message I left at the hotel."
"Maybe that's for the best."
Lucian's head snapped toward his second-in-command. "What?"
Marco sighed. "I'm just saying you're Lucian Romano. You run half of Milan. You have enemies on every corner. You live in a world of violence and death." He paused. "Is that really a world you want to bring her into?"
"That's not your decision to make."
"I know. But maybe it should be hers." Marco's voice was gentle. "Maybe she ran for a reason. Maybe she saw who you really are and decided she wanted no part of it."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because maybe Marco was right.
Maybe she had seen the darkness in him, had sensed the violence lurking beneath the surface, and had run.
Maybe the fake name wasn't just about protecting herself from a stranger.
Maybe it was about protecting herself from him.
"I don't care," Lucian said finally, his voice cold. "I will find her. And when I do, she can make that decision herself."
Marco was quiet for the rest of the drive.
That night, Lucian stood on the balcony of his bedroom, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the city he controlled.
Half of Milan belonged to him. Billions in assets. More power than most men could dream of.
And he'd trade all of it for one more night with her.
He thought about her constantly. Wondered what she was doing. If she ever thought about him. If that night had meant anything to her at all.
Or if he was just another mistake she'd rather forget.
His phone buzzed. Another report from another investigator.
Dead end. No leads. Recommend closing the case.
Lucian deleted it and immediately called another agency.
He wouldn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
She was out there somewhere. Living her life. Maybe with someone else by now.
The thought made rage boil in his chest.
Mine, something primitive in him snarled. She's mine.
Even if she didn't know it.
Even if he never found her.
She would always be his.
NATASHA'S POV
Queens, New York - Six Months After Jordan's Birth
The baby monitor crackled, and Natasha's eyes flew open despite the exhaustion weighing down every bone in her body.
3:47 AM.
Jordan had been asleep for exactly two hours and thirty-three minutes. A new record.
She waited, holding her breath, praying he'd settle back down on his own.
Please. Please just sleep a little longer.
The crackling continued, then escalated into a whimper. Then a full-blown wail.
Natasha dragged herself out of bed, every muscle screaming in protest. She'd worked a double shift at the diner yesterday, sixteen hours on her feet, and her body felt like it had been run over by a truck.
"I'm coming, baby," she mumbled, stumbling down the hallway to the tiny second bedroom that served as Jordan's nursery.
He was standing in his crib, his little face red and tear-stained, arms reaching for her desperately.
"Mama!" he sobbed.
Despite the exhaustion, despite everything, Natasha's heart melted. She scooped him up, feeling his warm weight against her chest, his little hands clutching at her shirt.
"Shh, it's okay. Mama's here."
She checked his diaper, wet, of course, and changed him with the efficient movements of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Jordan's cries quieted to hiccupping sniffles as she worked.
In the dim glow of the nightlight, she could see his face clearly. Dark hair, already getting thick and wavy. A face that was going to be heartbreakingly handsome when he grew up.
A face that looked exactly like his father's.
Natasha's chest tightened with the familiar mix of love and resentment.
She'd never be able to look at her son without seeing him. The man who'd held her like she was precious and then vanished like smoke.
"You hungry, baby?" she whispered.
Jordan nodded, still sniffling.
She carried him to the kitchen, warming a bottle one-handed while he clung to her like a little monkey. The apartment was silent except for the hum of the microwave and Jordan's occasional hiccup.
Jenny's bedroom door was closed. Her best friend had moved back home three months ago, needed to save money, she'd said, though Natasha suspected it was more about giving Natasha and Jordan space. The apartment felt emptier without her.
Lonelier.
Natasha settled into the rocking chair in Jordan's room, cradling him as he drank his bottle. His dark eyes, eyes that would definitely turn the same deep brown as Lucian's, watched her trustingly.
"I love you," she whispered, stroking his soft hair. "I love you so much, baby boy."
Even if he was a constant reminder of her biggest mistake.
Even if looking at him sometimes hurt.
He was hers. Her son. Her world.
By the time Jordan fell back asleep, it was past 4:30 AM. Natasha's alarm would go off at 6:00 for her morning shift.
Less than ninety minutes of sleep.
She laid Jordan back in his crib, watching him for a moment to make sure he was really out, then stumbled back to her own bed.
Her body felt like lead. Her eyes burned. Her breasts ached, she was still breastfeeding, still dealing with the pain and exhaustion that came with it.
This was her life now.
And she was so, so tired.
"You look like death," Rick said cheerfully when she arrived at the diner at 6:45 AM, fifteen minutes late because Jordan had spit up all over her uniform and she'd had to change.
"Thanks," Natasha muttered, tying her apron with hands that shook from exhaustion.
"Late again. That's the third time this week."
"I have a six-month-old baby, Rick. Sometimes things happen."
"And I have a business to run." He crossed his arms. "You're on thin ice, Natasha. One more late arrival and we're going to have a serious conversation about your employment here."
She wanted to scream at him. Wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his serious conversation.
But she had forty-three dollars in her bank account and rent was due in a week.
"It won't happen again," she said through gritted teeth.
"See that it doesn't."
The morning rush was brutal. Impatient customers, screaming children, coffee spills, and a man who tried to stiff her on a sixty-dollar check.
By the time her shift ended at 2:00 PM, Natasha felt like she might actually pass out.
But she couldn't go home yet.
She had to pick up Jordan from her mother's house, then get to her evening class at 6:00 PM. Professor Chen had already warned her that one more absence would result in an automatic fail.
She'd dropped most of her classes after Jordan was born, couldn't afford the tuition, couldn't handle the schedule, but she'd kept one. Just one, to feel like she was still moving forward, still working toward something.
Even if it was killing her.
"You look terrible, honey."
Her mother, Tiffany, stood in the doorway of her childhood home, bouncing Jordan on her hip. The baby squealed happily when he saw Natasha, reaching for her with grabby hands.
"Thanks, Mom," Natasha said dryly, taking her son and breathing in his baby smell. God, she'd missed him. Even though it had only been eight hours.
"I'm just saying, you're working yourself into the ground. This isn't sustainable."
"I don't have a choice."
"You could move back home. Your father and I have plenty of space—"
"No." The word came out sharper than Natasha intended. "I appreciate the help, Mom, but I need my own place. Jordan and I need our own space."
What she didn't say: I can't live under your roof with your constant judgment and disappointed looks.
Her parents loved Jordan, she knew that. But they also saw him as evidence of her failure. Her mistake. The "that boy" who'd ruined their daughter's promising future.
Tiffany sighed. "Well, if you change your mind..."
"I won't. But thank you for watching him today."
"Of course. He's my grandson." Tiffany's expression softened. "He was asking for you all day. Kept saying Mama, Mama."
Natasha's heart squeezed. "He's talking more?"
"Oh yes. He's very advanced for his age. The pediatrician said so at his checkup last week."
Pride swelled in Natasha's chest, momentarily pushing aside the exhaustion. Her son was smart. Advanced.
Of course he was. With Lucian's genes...
She shoved that thought away violently.
No. Jordan was advanced because she was raising him right. Because she read to him every night, sang to him, played with him whenever she had five minutes to spare.
Nothing to do with that man.
"I have to go," Natasha said. "Class at six."
"You're going straight from here? Honey, you need to eat something—"
"I'll grab something on campus. Thanks again, Mom."
She was out the door before her mother could protest further.
The class was a blur.
Professor Chen droned on about financial markets and portfolio management while Natasha fought to keep her eyes open. Jordan was mercifully asleep in his car seat next to her desk, she'd learned quickly that most professors didn't appreciate babies in their classrooms, but she literally had no other choice.
Her classmates shot her annoyed looks every time Jordan made a sound. She'd become that student. The one everyone whispered about.
Single mom. Got knocked up. Threw her life away.
She heard the whispers, saw the judgment.
And she hated it.
By the time class ended at 8:30 PM, Jordan was awake again and fussy. Natasha gathered their things with shaking hands, desperate to get home, to feed him, to maybe, finally, sleep.
"Ms. Samuel, a word?"
Professor Chen's voice stopped her at the door.
Fuck.
"Yes, Professor?"
He looked uncomfortable. "I wanted to talk to you about your performance this semester. Your test scores have been concerning."
"I know. I'm trying, I just—"
"I understand you're dealing with a lot right now." His eyes flicked to Jordan, who was gnawing on his fist and making cranky sounds. "But the reality is, you're failing this class. And I can't make exceptions, regardless of circumstances."
The words hit her like a physical blow.
Failing.
She was failing.
All this effort, all this exhaustion, and she was failing anyway.
"I'll do better," she heard herself say. "I'll study harder, I'll—"
"Natasha." Professor Chen's voice was gentle. "Maybe you should consider taking a semester off. Focus on your son. Come back when you're in a better position to handle the workload."
Take a semester off.
Which meant falling even further behind. Which meant it would take even longer to graduate. Which meant more years of working shit jobs and barely scraping by.
"I'll think about it," she lied.
She wouldn't think about it.
She couldn't afford to.
Home was a tiny one-bedroom apartment that smelled like old carpet and the Chinese takeout from three days ago that she still hadn't thrown away.
Natasha fed Jordan, bathed him, read him a story even though her eyes were closing mid-sentence. By the time she got him down for the night, it was past 10:00 PM.
She should study. Should work on the assignment due next week.
Instead, she collapsed on her bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling.
Six months.
It had been six months since Jordan was born, and she was barely surviving.
Some days she wondered if she'd made the right choice. If maybe adoption would have been better, given Jordan a real family, two parents who could provide for him properly.
But then she thought about never seeing his smile again, never hearing him call her Mama, and the thought made her physically ill.
No.
She'd made the right choice.
She just had to keep going. Keep pushing through.
For Jordan.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Jenny: How you holding up, babe? Want me to come over this weekend? I can watch J while you sleep.
Natasha's eyes burned with tears.
That would be amazing. Thank you.
Anything for my favorite people. Love you.
Love you too.
Natasha set her phone down and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would be another day. Another shift at the diner. Another night of interrupted sleep. Another class she was failing.
But Jordan would smile at her. Would wrap his tiny arms around her neck and press sloppy kisses to her cheek.
And that would make it worth it.
Even if she was drowning.
Even if she sometimes looked at her son's face and felt a flash of anger at the man who'd helped create him and then disappeared.
Even if she was so tired she could barely think straight.
It had to be worth it.
It had to be.
Because what other choice did she have?
In the darkness of her room, Natasha allowed herself one moment of weakness.
One moment to wonder where Lucian was. What he was doing. If he ever thought about that night.
If he'd care that he had a son.
Then she shoved the thoughts away and forced herself to sleep.
She didn't have time for what-ifs.
She had a baby to raise.
Alone.