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Her voice.

It was her.

The little brown curls, those gray-green eyes identical to mine, three years old, the Italian pronunciation, Ruby's terrified voice, and Leon calling out "Mamma"...

All the pieces slammed into place in that moment, forming complete truth.

This wasn't coincidence. Not an enemy trap.

Four years ago, that cold, desperate rainy night in Hoboken—when she left me, she was already carrying our child.

This little boy sitting across from me, tugging my pant leg asking for strawberry Napoleon, was my son. Marcelo Moretti's own flesh and blood.

The massive impact crushed my throat. All breath jammed in my chest. My whole body went rigid as ice; I couldn't produce a single syllable.

"Hello? Martha, are you listening? Say something! What happened to Leon?" Ruby sensed the silence. Her voice shot up sharp, shredding with panic.

The little guy on the sofa heard the voice leaking from the receiver. He immediately scrambled up onto his knees, little body straining across the table, shouting toward my phone in his baby voice.

"Mamma! It's me! I'm on the first floor by the big duck fountain, in the strawberry cake shop with big glass windows!"

"Leon?"

A sharp crash of breaking porcelain exploded through the phone, followed by Ruby's completely unhinged scream. "Leon! Who's holding the phone? Don't be scared, Mamma's coming right now! Stay there and don't move!!"

"It's a tall man in a black suit. He bought me a strawberry Napoleon!" Leon chirped happily into the microphone.

No more words came from the other end. Just the chaotic thunder of high heels running frantically across the floor, and a woman's rapid, ragged breathing. The call didn't even get disconnected.

I slowly lowered my phone and killed the screen. Veins bulged on the back of my hand.

"Leon."

I fought to control the raging storm in my chest, my voice hoarse and rough like I'd swallowed broken glass. "Where do you... live normally?"

"Venice," he said obediently, settling back down, little hands gripping the table edge. His gray-green eyes were clear as glass. "The streets are all big water. When you go out you have to take big boats."

"What about your father?"

The word rolled across my tongue, tasting like masochistic blood.

Leon blinked. His expression stayed completely calm, not a ripple. "I don't have a daddy. Mamma says little agents don't need daddies. Mamma alone can protect Leon and beat up all the bad guys."

Little agents don't need daddies.

Every word was a salt-crusted dull knife scraping across my heart.

Four years.

Beside those cold, damp canals in a foreign country, when she needed money most, needed support most—she endured her body changing, endured labor pains and gossip alone, gave birth to this child. She survived the hardest days, raised her son stitch by stitch, but told the kid he "didn't need a daddy."

And me—besides that goddamn fifty-thousand-dollar check, besides my self-righteous revenge and bloodshed—what did I give them?

"Sir, your strawberry Napoleon and milk." The server arrived with a tray.

"Thanks."

I forced myself up, walked toward the self-serve station on the side of the dessert shop to get child-sized utensils and napkins, trying to use mechanical motion to settle my nearly feral nerves.