Chapter 2 - COLD MILK AND BROKEN LOCKS
The fever broke at dawn, but the danger was far from over.
Elena sat on the floor, her back propped against the buzzing radiator, watching the baby sleep. Every small hitch in the infant's breathing sent a jolt of adrenaline through her veins. Around 5:00 a.m., the child had started crying—a dry, hoarse wail of pure misery and hunger.
Elena had scrambled through her cupboards. She had half a loaf of stale white bread, two eggs, and a jar of tap water. She had no baby formula, no bottles, no infant Tylenol.
She reached for her winter coat, checking her pocket. Sixty-two dollars.
"Hold on, little one," Elena murmured, carefully swaddling the baby in her own warmest flannel shirt and tucking her securely into the center of the bed, building a barricade of pillows around her. "I'll be right back. Three minutes. I promise."
She locked the flimsy deadbolt on her door, practically threw herself up the concrete stairs, and bolted into the frosty morning air toward the 24-hour bodega on the corner of 31st Street.
The bell above the door jingled as she burst inside. Behind the counter, Sal, an elderly man with thick glasses and flour on his apron, looked up in surprise. "Elena? You look like you saw a ghost. You're supposed to be sleeping before your shift."
"Sal, I need infant formula. The gentle kind. And a bottle. And infant fever drops."
Sal frowned, setting down his rag. "Since when do you have a baby, kid?"
Elena's stomach plummeted. In a neighborhood like this, gossip traveled faster than the subway. "My... my cousin," she lied smoothly, forcing her voice to remain steady. "She got stranded at Port Authority with her little girl. The bus broke down. She's staying with me until noon."
Sal studied her face for a second, then nodded toward the back aisle. "Top shelf. Good brand. But it’s expensive, Elena."
Elena grabbed the powdered can, the BPA-free bottle, and a small box of infant pain reliever. She brought them to the counter.
"Forty-eight dollars and fifty cents," Sal said, tapping the register.
Elena shoved her wrinkled bills across the counter, leaving herself with barely thirteen dollars to survive the next three days. She didn't hesitate for a second. "Keep the change, Sal. Thank you."
She snatched the plastic bag and hurried out the door. But as she stepped onto the sidewalk, she noticed something that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
Two sleek, black SUVs with heavily tinted windows and government-style blackout trim were crawling slowly down the narrow residential street. They weren't police cruisers. They were armored luxury vehicles, moving at a walking pace, scanning every doorway, every stoop.
A man stepped out of the passenger side of the lead vehicle. He was built like a vault, wearing an expensive tailored overcoat that failed to conceal the bulge of a shoulder holster beneath his arm. He didn't look at the sky or the slush; his eyes were scanning every alley, every trash can, every basement grate.
*They're searching the grid,* Elena realized, her breath catching in her throat.
Were they the kidnappers returning to ensure the baby had frozen to death? Or were they Lorenzo Moretti’s executioners, scouring the earth to exterminate anyone connected to his child's disappearance?
She kept her head down, slipped behind a parked delivery van, and moved swiftly along the brick wall, slipping silently down her basement steps and vanishing into the shadows of the subterranean entrance before the men could turn their gaze toward her.
Inside her apartment, she threw the deadbolt and leaned her back against the door, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
From the bed, the baby let out another weak, plaintive cry.
"I’m here," Elena whispered, throwing off her coat. "I'm right here."
She boiled water on the tiny electric hotplate, cooled it with precision, and mixed the formula in the plastic bottle. When she sat on the edge of the bed and gathered the infant into her arms, the baby took the rubber nipple instantly, feeding with ravenous desperation.
Elena watched the child's dark eyes flutter open. Now that the fever had subsided from lethal to moderate, she could see the striking features of the little girl. She had large, luminous hazel eyes framed by long, dark lashes, and high cheekbones that already promised aristocratic beauty.
"You're safe," Elena murmured, stroking the soft curls on her temple. "Whoever left you out there won't touch you while I'm breathing."
The baby finished half the bottle, let out a soft, milky sigh, and nuzzled her face against the crook of Elena’s neck, falling into a deep, healing sleep.
Elena looked around her dingy, water-stained room. The paint was peeling off the plaster walls. The linoleum floor was cracked. She had no money, no powerful family, and no protection. But as the infant’s warm, tiny hand rested over her collarbone, Elena knew one thing with absolute certainty:
May you like
She couldn't stay here. The men on the street were closing the circle.
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