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On the transatlantic flight to New York, we sat side by side like two strangers with nothing in common. I kept my headphones on, staring out the window the whole time, brain tangled in knots I couldn't untie. Mary's tear-choked warning scraped repeatedly across my eardrums. That daughter who'd appeared out of nowhere felt like an absurd farce—one touch and my chest churned with unbearable sourness and pain.

What a fucking life.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hiding the tears pooling behind them.

Chapter 17

Ruby

Kennedy Airport's cold, damp wind swept through, reeking of jet fuel and burning the lungs.

The black Cadillac idled outside that grimy red-brick walkup in Hoboken. Exhaust plumed white in the narrow one-way street, the engine growling low.

Old Tom, the driver, climbed out and set my beat-up suitcase on the wet concrete steps, then pulled open the rear door.

Marcelo sat in the shadows on the far side, a leather portfolio open on his lap. He didn't turn to look at me. His gaze stayed fixed on the rain-blurred windshield ahead.

I grabbed the strap of my canvas bag and swung my legs out.

"Ruby."

His voice filled the cramped interior—low, steady, flat as glass.

My fingers clenched around the doorframe. My boot hit the wet pavement and froze mid-step.

"When you've figured it out, you know where to find me. Top floor." He said it like he was reading stock prices.

I didn't look back. Just gripped the door and slammed it shut behind me.

Cut off that cedar-and-tobacco scent. The window was tinted black, bulletproof, reflecting my pale, wrecked face. The tires hissed through standing water and the car slid away into the gray New Jersey sprawl.

I dragged my suitcase up to the third floor. Every wooden step groaned under the weight.

The key stuck in the lock. Took two full turns before the rusted bolt gave. Inside, the air was thick with days-old dust and rotting plaster, cold as a wet rag pressed to the face.

I dumped the suitcase in the hall. Didn't even take off my coat. Just collapsed onto that secondhand fabric couch in the living room.

The springs let out a dull metallic screech. The cushion sank beneath me.

I lay there staring at the water stain on the ceiling. Dead silence except for the refrigerator's relentless mechanical hum.

Paris mornings. Silk sheets. The Seine spinning beneath us. That black satellite phone flashing "Principessa." All of it slammed through my head in manic rotation.

My chest felt crushed. I couldn't breathe.

I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up, stinging my dry eyes.

Scrolled to "Mom." My finger hovered over the green call button. Frozen.

I couldn't do it.

Mary's face flashed in front of me—neurotic, soaked in resentment and tears. I could already script her reaction word for word. She'd scream. She'd weaponize her own abandonment and nail me to the cross with it. She'd remind me I was too big, too thick, not good enough for a man with money and a car like that. Then she'd cry and tell me all men were the same, and I was just another disposable replacement.

Those words would poison me. Drain whatever strength I had left.

I jerked my hand back. Exited the call screen.

My chest heaved. I scrolled down and tapped the pinned chat, dialing Isabella instead.