Page 112 of Where the Wind Whispers

He’d been planning this for a while, to be sure.

“Leave,” Alberto said, “and I will call you back when I’m ready.”

The men went without question.

Alberto settled back into his large office chair, taking his time to carefully unwrap the baby girl from her blankets as she rested in his embrace. He traced the tip of her nose with the pad of his finger, committing her beautiful features to his memory.

This would be the one and only time he ever saw her.

After today, she would be separated from his life forever.

But he wanted this moment first.

“My, my, ragazza, you look just like your mamma, bambina,” he told the baby.

He wondered if she behaved like her mother did when Violet was brand new, always keeping them awake and never giving them rest.

He did, of course, know quite a bit about the child. The right amount of money shoved into a nurse’s hand had gotten him copies of the child’s few hospital records.

Twenty-two hours of labor.

Born at six AM in the morning.

No complications.

Eight pounds, two ounces of precious life.

Amazing, really.

“Did you know, little one,” Alberto said to the sleeping baby, “that you have quite the parents, hmm? Although it will do them no good, I have no doubt they will burn the city down to have you back.”

Anastasya didn’t react, her nap uninterrupted.

So Alberto stayed like that. Holding the baby while she slept, talking to her, and then when she finally awoke, he opened the drawer in his desk and pulled out one of the few premade bottles of formula he had picked up for her. He fed her then changed her dirty diaper from the supplies he’d put in the same drawer.

Wide awake, the baby’s gray eyes stared at him in amazement.

“Hello,” he said softly, “I’m your grandpapa, child.”

The baby smacked her little pink lips, a smile forming.

This could have been different, he knew.

This whole situation could have been better.

If only …

Alberto sighed, reaching over to grab his phone off the desk. Putting it on speaker, he dialed the number for Francis, waiting for the younger man to pick up.

All too soon, Francis did, and Alberto said, “Find my son and tell him he’s needed.”

“Carmine is—”

“I’m aware he’s in a bad state; do as I asked.”

Carmine, as he usually did, made his father wait even after he’d been given an order to appear. Hours, actually. Alberto allowed it to pass, if only because his son was injured, and he had little desire to listen to the boy whine about it.

When Carmine did finally darken the office’s doorway, he passed the child his father was holding a look, recognition drifting over his face. “Tell me you didn’t take the Russian’s child.”