Phantom's Baby: A Mafia Secret Baby Romance (Mob City Book 3) (43 page)

M
aya

I leaned forward, wincing as the couch groaned and squealed with every inch. "Alina, tell me. Is there a child here?"

Her face was as guileless as a toddler's. She wrung her hands together like an old washerwoman, and I saw her jaw clench and face grimace as she tried to work out what to say. I knew the bind she was in, and so did she. She was between a rock and a hard place. It wasn't me who was the rock, but Massey, his presence as good a threat as any – even if I never meant it that way.

A tear crept into the corner of her left eye, and then another, and another until both were wet and a stream ran down a lined face that was entirely free of makeup. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she cried. "I knew it was wrong, I knew that I should have called police. But Mister Victor –"

"Alina," I interrupted. "I understand. Believe me, I understand. I know it wasn't your fault. I know you didn't have a choice. But tell me the truth. There's a baby here, isn't there?"

She nodded, like a child on the verge of a flood of tears, as though she didn't trust her voice not to betray her.

"In that bedroom?" I asked, jutting my chin at the only door it
could
be, the only other door in here.

Alina nodded.

"Okay, Alina," I said, speaking to her softly, slowly, as if I was speaking to a child. "You see, I have to thank you for everything you've done to keep him safe. But he's my friend's son, and I need to take him home. You understand that, don't you?"

She nodded, though it was like her neck was moving through wet cement. Her lips seemed locked together, she was struck dumb.

"I'm going to go in there now," I said, still measuring my words. "And get him. I want you to know that nothing's going to happen to you, okay? Mister Victor," I said, copying her name for him. " Isn't going to be a problem anymore. Not for you, not for anyone." I could tell she didn't believe me. But I knew she wasn't going to stop me.

I stood up and walked for the bedroom. Alina didn't follow. I turned the handle, and the door opened to reveal a room full of five or six kids who looked like they were trying to pretend as if they were doing anything
but
listening to every word of our conversation. I figured Alina must be the neighborhood childminder. Made sense. The oldest kid, a girl of perhaps twelve years old, with pretty emerald-green eyes and light brown hair that fell almost to her waist, cradled a bundle of cloth in her hands. The head, just peeking out, was topped with a light covering of sandy hair.

"Hey…" I said softly. "You mind if I take over?"

* * *

"
H
ey
, boss lady!" Massey cried out. "High five!"

I looked pointedly at the sleeping five-month old baby boy cradled in my arms.

His face fell. "Oh, yeah," he stumbled. "You're right. Maybe not."

I started walking down the stairs. I kept my eyes trained on every one, ears peeled for any hint of trouble. I knew Ellie would kill me if I returned her baby with so much as a hair out of place.

"Oh, and Massey?" I called back.

"Yes boss?"

"Make sure that lady's taken care of."

"Yes boss," he barked. There was a slight pause, and I realized the sound of footsteps from behind me had died away.

"Massey?" I said, turning to face him – eyebrow already raised in question.

"Yes boss," he said – again – as he started walking down. “Only, boss?"

"
Yes
, Massey," I hissed. "What is it?"

"I was just wondering," he said, scratching his elbow awkwardly. "Whether you want her taken care of, like getting her a new car, not living in a shithole; or, you know –
taken care of
."

I stared at him with dumbfounded amazement. When I finally regained the power of speech, I spluttered. "Massey, if I ever find that you've killed a nice old lady who gave me a steaming hot cup of a drink my grandmother used to make me," I gasped. "
You'll
be taken care of!"

"Yes, boss."

E
llie

Six weeks later
…

"Your honor, in the light of the unprecedented levels of public interest in this case, the arrests we have seen over the past month and a half, and with full respect to statutory whistle-blower protections as laid out in section 73, paragraph five of the criminal code, the state does not feel that a prosecution serves either the state or the public's interest at this time –"

The rest of the prosecutor's short, planned speech was drowned out by a panoply of cheers that rose as one, combined, joined forces and began to echo off the roof like a drum beat. The courtroom was packed to the rafters, with dozens of reporters – some I recognized, and many more from out of town; jurists, legal scholars, and dozens, nearly 100 members of the public. Every single person in the room, even the prosecution team, was wreathed in smiles, and I saw more congratulatory handshakes, hugs and even kisses than I'd ever seen in one place.

I felt like I'd won the Super Bowl.

But out of all that mess, I only had eyes for one person. Well, two.

But Roman had the small bundle of blue cloth clutched so tightly to his chest that he was practically one with it, so hard my heart began fluttering – hoping he knew what he was doing.

Chill, girl. He saved that kid's life. He's hardly about to hug the boy to death
…

"Order, order…" The judge cried out, banging a small wooden gavel against his lectern. The sound barely penetrated the pandemonium, and before long he placed his head in his hands, shrugged, and massaged his temples. I felt sorry for him. I doubted many of his cases gathered this much attention.

I leaned over toward my lawyer. Like the rest of his high-powered team, he'd shown up one day out of the blue. Compliments of Conor and Maya. "What now?"

He shrugged, and attempted a long-suffering sigh, but his lawyerly act wasn't fooling anyone – least of all me. The grin that stretched from ear to ear on his face, like a preening Cheshire cat, showed it for the lie it was. "We did it!" He cried, gathering me into his arms. I grinned. His elation was contagious. But still, none of this felt real. I was dazed and confused, walking through a dream without a guide.

"Seriously, Paul – what's the deal?" I pestered. Much as I was enjoying the public celebrations at my supposed freedom, right now it wasn't everything it was cracked up to be. What's that phrase? Freedom isn't free? It sure as hell felt that way to me…

I'd have sacrificed all of this madness for just one more second with Roman – and for my first ever meeting with my son. At least, my first meeting not separated by a glass shield and two black telephones. I just wanted to hold him, to cradle him, to kiss him on the head and press him to my breast.

I knew why Roman held him so close.

"Ahem," Paul stuttered, pulling back and tidying his hair, as if to smooth over his momentary lapse of professionalism. "Quite, of course. Well, the protocol would normally be for the judge to rule the case closed, but as you can see –," he paused, and gestured out into the courtroom, which resembled a sports arena more than it did a firnament of the law. "It's a bit busy out there."

'A bit busy' was the understatement of the year.

"So you're telling me," I said, repeating it slowly, just to be certain. "That until everyone in here shuts the hell up, I'm stuck behind this damn screen, with my hands and feet chained together like a chain-gang worker?"

"Ah, yes," Paul said with momentary chagrin. "I can see how that would be a little…
Galling
."

I rolled my eyes at my lawyer's East Coast, upper-class understatement and studied my reflection in the plastic plexiglass screen that separated me from the rest of the courtroom. I grimaced at the picture my eyes showed me. My head hadn't seen a stylist's scissors in months – or even conditioner; my face looked tired and didn't bear even the slightest trace of makeup, and worst of all – most glaringly of all – the orange DOC jumpsuit radiated its fiery color back at me, brighter than the setting sun. I decided that it was up to me. And besides, it couldn't get any more embarrassing than this, having to wear an outfit that made me look like a giant lollipop…

I stood up. For all that everyone in the room was supposedly celebrating my freedom, I couldn't help but notice that there was barely an eye on me. In fact, only two – Roman's.

I cleared my throat, and Paul's curious eyes now joined Roman's. A two-man audience, now. Not impressive, but a start.

I rapped my knuckles against the glass screen.

"Excuse me," I squeaked, a plaintive sound that didn't reach so much as 5 feet into the crowd, and didn't turn a head.

I sighed, and tried again. This time with gusto. "Excuuusseeee me!" I bellowed, squeezing more air out of my lungs than I would have believed they could hold. The room fell silent in waves, like a gust of wind blowing across a field of golden wheat, rippling through, quelling pockets of sound that pushed back up on others, and then, finally, you could have heard a pin drop.

And now, every eye really
was
on me.

"That's better," I said softly, slightly embarrassed by the attention of the crowd. Even the judge's eyes were glued to me, which I was pretty sure wasn't the way things were supposed to work. I wanted to sink away, find a hole in the ground and crawl right into it, but I pulled myself up, until like a yoga pose my back was ramrod straight, and my chin parallel with the ground.

"Thanks…" I croaked, cleared my voice, and continued. "I was kinda hoping we could get on with this?" I raised my hands, and the handcuffs linking them clinked as they rattled against each other. "It's just these things aren't the
most
comfortable…"

The crowd looked, as one, embarrassed. The judge, somewhat belatedly, brought his gavel down twice and said, "order," into the silent room.

Roman's eyes warmed, and his face split into a warm smile. His was the only reaction I cared about. It was like he was beaming one message through the air at me –
atta girl
.

The judge smiled. With a grin that reached the graying hair by his ears. "Bailiff, you can set her free. Case closed." Once again, he brought his gavel down, and once again the sound was lost to a roar of exultation.

I slumped back and closed my eyes.

It was over.

E
llie

The door to the anteroom closed, and took the courtroom's hubbub with it.

We were alone, together, at last – and my tongue was tied in knots. There was so much I wanted to say to him, so much I wanted to tell him – and I wanted to hold him
so
much it almost hurt, but I felt as though my legs were locked in drying cement, my tongue had forgotten how to move, and my lips sealed with superglue.

Roman looked at me uncertainly. "Are you," he ventured. "Okay? You're looking a bit white. Do you want to sit down?"

The truth was, I was overwhelmed. Just looking at Roman, dressed in neat, fitted black jeans, a white cotton oxford shirt rolled up past the elbows, and a sleek, expensive-looking stainless steel watch clasped to his wrist was more stimulation than my eyes had seen at any point in the last six weeks, during my stay closeted in the dull, gray concrete walls of the Alexandria County Jail.

The smell of baby powder tickled my nostrils. "Can I," I stammered. "Can I –, hold him?"

Roman grinned, looking for the first time like the man I had fallen in love with, and not a concerned good Samaritan. "Are you kidding? Tim and I have been waiting –"

I cut across him. "You named him?" I said, the words passing through my ears without ever seeming to settle.

Roman fell quiet, and a look of concern wreathed his face. "Yes, I mean, no –. Just something I called him when I was changing him, you know? I didn't mean to –. It was just like I was talking to my brother again, and –." He stuttered to a halt, leaving a trail of half-finished sentences in his wake.

I grinned, a real, honest-to-God beam that stretched cheek muscles that had almost forgotten how to smile during my stay in the county lockup. "Don't be. It's perfect. Really, I wouldn't have it any other way."

He looked at me anxiously. "You're sure?"

I nodded. Roman reached his left arm around me and hugged him into me, cradling Tim between us. We looked down as one, and the tiny, sandy-haired baby yawned and opened his icy-gray eyes, as if on cue. He had his father's eyes. "Thank you," he whispered into my ear. "It means a lot."

"Can I –?" I ventured, barely able to form a sentence. Tim smelt so clean, so fresh, so innocent it almost brought a tear to my eye. It certainly stilled my tongue. To be so close, after so long, it was almost too much to bear.

Roman lifted Tim up and gingerly offered me his tiny, onesie-wearing, cloth-wrapped body like a gift. It was such a bizarre sight, the huge, hulking beast of a man, whose arms were almost wider around than my legs, treating such a thing so carefully that I had to hide a smile. It was as though Roman thought Tim was an unexploded bomb, that any sudden movement might hurt him, and ruin all our happiness.

I reached out and clutched my baby to my breast. He gurgled, and for half a second I pressed my eyes closed, fearing he might start to cry. After all this time, no matter how natural and inevitable the sound of the baby's cry is – I wasn't sure I could take it.

Tim laughed.

I almost cried.