Chapter 1 - EIGHTY-SEVEN MINUTES
The baby had been screaming for eighty-seven minutes when I finally stood up.
Not crying.
Screaming.
There was a difference, and after six years in labor and delivery, I could still hear it even though I had not worn scrubs in almost four years.
My three-year-old daughter Maya was curled against my side beneath the thin airline blanket, one little hand gripping the fabric of my blouse.
Four days earlier, that same hand had been trembling after my husband shoved her hard enough to send her shoulder into the corner of our coffee table.
Derek had called it an accident.
I had called it the last time.
By sunrise, Maya and I were gone.
Now we were somewhere over the Atlantic with one suitcase, €274 in cash, two passports, and no plan beyond reaching my cousin Gabriella in Rome.
The crying came again from first class.
A sharp scream.
A pause.
A wet choking gasp.
Then another scream.
My entire body reacted before my mind did.
I carefully lowered Maya onto the empty seat beside me.
The elderly woman across the aisle glanced up.
“Is she all right?”
“She’s sleeping.”
“I’ll watch her.”
I hesitated.
Four days of fear had taught me not to trust anyone.
Then the baby choked again.
I stood.
“Thank you.”
I walked toward the curtain separating premium economy from first class.
A flight attendant intercepted me immediately.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to return to your seat.”
“I was a labor and delivery nurse.”
Her expression changed slightly.
“The baby in there is exhausted.”
“We have a physician assisting.”
“Is the physician a pediatrician?”
She paused.
“No.”
“Has the baby taken a bottle?”
Another pause.
“Not really.”
“How old?”
“Five months.”
My stomach tightened.
Five months.
Old enough to recognize voices.
Old enough to remember smells.
Old enough to know exactly who was missing.
I moved past her.
A huge man in a black suit rose from the first row.
He was well over six feet tall and had the kind of stillness that frightened me more than shouting would have.
“Go back.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I wasn’t asking.”
“Neither was I.”
For half a second, no one moved.
Then a deeper voice spoke from behind him.
“Enzo.”
The large man stepped aside.
That was when I saw the baby's father.
He sat in 2A wearing a charcoal suit that looked hand-tailored and a white shirt with the top button open.
His dark hair was slightly disordered.
His face was controlled.
His gray eyes were not.
Those eyes belonged to a man who had reached the end of whatever power usually protected him.
The baby writhed against his chest.
His face was red from crying.
His tiny fists opened and closed desperately.
A bottle rested untouched on the side table.
Another bottle sat in a bucket of melting ice.
A third had rolled beneath the neighboring seat.
Across the aisle, a famous actress I recognized from television had abandoned her champagne and was watching us openly.
The father looked at me.
“I think I know what’s wrong,” I said.
“Trained staff have been trying for over an hour.”
“He doesn’t need trained staff.”
His expression hardened.
“What does he need?”
I looked at the baby.
His face turned toward me.
His screaming stopped for perhaps half a second.
Then he inhaled my scent and began crying harder.
That confirmed what I suspected.
“He’s hungry.”
The father looked toward the abandoned bottles.
“We have offered him three.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you telling me he’s hungry?”
I felt heat climb my neck.
My body had already betrayed the answer.
Milk had leaked through the nursing pad under my blouse.
I had stopped nursing Maya only recently.
Apparently my body did not care what my plans had been.
I looked at the baby again.
“He isn’t asking for formula.”
The father's eyes narrowed.
“He’s asking for the experience he associates with being fed.”
He said nothing.
“Warm skin.”
“Someone holding him against a chest.”
“A heartbeat.”
“A familiar feeding position.”
The baby clawed desperately at his father's shirt.
“He’s searching.”
The man looked down.
Something changed in his face.
Not weakness.
Recognition.
He looked back at me.
“Are you saying you could feed him?”
The cabin became so quiet that I heard ice crack inside a glass.
“I’m saying I might be able to.”
His bodyguard stared at me as though I had suggested hijacking the aircraft.
The actress covered her mouth.
The flight attendant whispered something behind us.
The father's gaze never left mine.
“What do you need?”
“A private place.”
“Of course.”
“And your permission.”
“You have it.”
“And one more thing.”
His jaw tightened.
“What?”
“You stay nearby.”
Surprise crossed his face.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not replacing whoever he’s looking for.”
I glanced at the screaming child.
“You’re his father.”
“He needs to know you’re still here.”
For the first time, the frightening man in the expensive suit looked almost lost.
He nodded.
The flight attendant drew the curtain around the first-class suite.
I sat down carefully.
The father handed me his son.
The reaction was immediate.
The baby turned toward my chest, frantic and instinctive.
His fists unclenched.
I adjusted his position.
“There you go.”
His first attempt was desperate.
His second was better.
Then he latched.
The screaming stopped.
Entirely.
The silence seemed impossible.
Even the engines suddenly sounded loud.
The baby drank greedily for several seconds.
Then his entire body softened.
A small hand rested against my skin.
I looked down.
His eyelashes were wet.
His cheeks were blotchy.
But he was quiet.
Across from me, his father stared.
He looked like a man witnessing something sacred and terrible at the same time.
“What’s his name?” I whispered.
“Luca.”
“Hello, Luca.”
The father swallowed.
“I’m Alessandro Moretti.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Not then.
“Claire Bennett.”
His eyes moved toward the curtain.
“Your daughter?”
“Maya.”
“How old?”
“Three.”
Alessandro looked toward the cabin behind us.
“You left her alone.”
“She’s with a woman across the aisle.”
“You trust strangers easily.”
The comment hit harder than he knew.
“No.”
I looked down at Luca.
“I used to.”
His expression sharpened.
He did not ask.
That made me like him slightly more than I wanted to.
Ten minutes later, Luca had stopped feeding.
I shifted him upright.
He burped against my shoulder.
Alessandro blinked.
I almost smiled.
“Babies aren’t impressed by expensive suits.”
Apparently not.
Luca's eyes were already closing.
I placed him carefully against his father's chest.
“Take off your jacket.”
Alessandro stared at me.
“Your jacket.”
He obeyed.
“Open your shirt another button.”
Enzo made a choking noise somewhere outside the curtain.
I ignored him.
“Hold Luca against your chest.”
Alessandro did.
Luca immediately pressed his face against his father's skin.
“Now breathe normally.”
“I am breathing normally.”
“No, you’re pretending to.”
His eyes narrowed.
I should have been afraid.
Instead, exhaustion had burned through most of my ability to care.
“Slow.”
He inhaled.
Then exhaled.
Luca settled.
A minute later, the child was asleep.
Alessandro looked down at him.
“He hasn’t slept longer than twenty minutes in three days.”
I froze.
“Three days?”
“Yes.”
“What happened three days ago?”
The question changed him.
His face became stone.
“My wife died.”
My throat tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
“She was Luca’s mother.”
Of course she was.
“Was she breastfeeding him?”
“Yes.”
“Exclusively?”
“Mostly.”
“When did she die?”
“Tuesday.”
It was Friday.
I closed my eyes briefly.
“Alessandro.”
“What?”
“Your son isn’t being difficult.”
His jaw tightened.
“He’s grieving.”
The words seemed to strike him physically.
“He’s five months old.”
“He doesn’t understand death.”
I looked at Luca.
“But he understands that the person who smelled like safety disappeared.”
Alessandro's eyes lowered.
I continued carefully.
“He associates feeding with his mother.”
“Then strangers began giving him bottles.”
“He doesn’t understand why.”
“He just knows everything familiar disappeared at once.”
Alessandro remained silent for a long time.
Then he whispered something in Italian.
I didn't understand the words.
I understood the guilt.
I stood.
“I should get back to Maya.”
He nodded.
I pulled the curtain aside.
Every face in first class turned toward me.
Nobody spoke.
I walked back into premium economy.
Maya was awake.
She sat upright beside the elderly woman.
Her eyes found me immediately.
“Mommy.”
I hurried to her.
“I’m here.”
She reached for me.
I lifted her.
Her sleeve slid upward.
The purple bruise on her upper arm became visible.
Behind me, footsteps stopped.
I turned.
Alessandro stood several feet away with Luca sleeping against his chest.
His eyes were fixed on Maya’s arm.
His entire expression changed.
“Who did that?”
I pulled Maya's sleeve down.
“It's nothing.”
Alessandro looked at me.
I had seen powerful men become angry before.
Derek became loud.
He punched walls.
He threw things.
Alessandro Moretti did none of those things.
He simply became completely still.
“Claire.”
I looked away.
“It’s handled.”
Maya buried her face against my neck.
Then she whispered loudly enough for him to hear.
“Daddy pushed me.”
The silence that followed was worse than the baby's screaming had been.
Alessandro's eyes returned to mine.
“Your husband?”
“Not anymore.”
“He knows where you’re going?”
“No.”
My phone vibrated inside my purse.
I almost ignored it.
Then I saw the number.
Unknown.
A text message appeared.
I opened it.
There was a photograph attached.
It showed Maya and me boarding the aircraft in Cleveland.
My blood turned cold.
Beneath the picture were seven words.
YOU REALLY THOUGHT I WOULDN'T FIND YOU?
Then another message appeared.
ROME ISN'T FAR ENOUGH, CLAIRE.
I stopped breathing.
Alessandro watched my face.
“What is it?”
Before I could answer, a third message appeared.
I'LL BE WAITING WHEN YOU LAND.
And for the first time since leaving Ohio, I understood something terrifying.
May you like
Derek had never lost us.
He had simply been letting us run.
