At 2:47 on the hottest Sunday Charleston had seen all summer, four-year-old Sophie Miller burst into Roman Bellini’s study with one sandal half off her foot and a red plastic stethoscope bouncing against her chest.

The temperature on the asphalt near the east laundry wall was one hundred and four degrees. The sunlight reflected off the whitewashed limestone bricks with a glare so intense it made the eyes water within seconds of stepping out of the air-conditioned main house.

The silver Bentley Continental sat in the narrow shade of a giant live oak tree, its engine off, its dark-tinted windows rolled up tight.

Evelyn Whitmore stood by the rear passenger door, wearing a pristine linen suit the color of bone, her silver-blonde hair pulled back into a tight, immaculate knot at the base of her neck. She held a pearl-handled leather handbag in her left hand and a heavy brass key ring in her right.

Beside her, her driver—a thick-set man in a black polo shirt with a radio earpiece curled behind his ear—was struggling with the latch of an expensive velvet-lined infant carrier on the back seat.

"Hurry up, Thomas," Evelyn said, her voice sharp, clipped, and devoid of the sweet, melodic tone she used when speaking to the baby. "We need to be past the main gate before Charles Vane finishes his presentation. If Roman comes out here before we clear the perimeter, it becomes a scene, and I don't want a scene until we're inside the judge's chambers."

"The belt mechanism is jammed, Mrs. Whitmore," the driver grunted, his face slick with sweat. "It's an aftermarket lock. It won't click into the seat anchor."

"Then don't lock it!" she snapped, glancing nervously toward the service archway. "Just slide the harness over the frame. We are driving four miles to the South Battery house. He isn't going to fly out of the seat."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Evelyn."

The voice came from the shade beneath the oak tree.

Evelyn froze. Her driver instinctively reached toward his hip, his hand hovering over the waistband of his trousers, but he stopped immediately when he saw who was walking out from behind the brick wall.

Roman wasn't running. He was walking with a slow, deliberate cadence that was infinitely more terrifying than a sprint. His hands were loose at his sides. Behind him, two men in dark suits—Marco and Lev, the primary security detail for the estate—emerged from the service corridor, quietly positioning themselves between the Bentley and the long gravel driveway that led to the front gate.

"Roman," Evelyn said, her voice recovering its smooth, aristocratic poise within seconds. She adjusted her handbag on her forearm and took a step toward him, putting herself between Roman and the open car door. "You're late for your afternoon meeting. Charles said you had four contracts to review."

Roman didn't look at her face. He looked past her shoulder, through the open rear door of the car.

Inside, resting on the dark leather seat, six-month-old Nicholas was lying on his back. His face was bright red, his small forehead slick with perspiration, his tiny hands opening and closing in the heavy, airless heat that had built up inside the cabin during the five minutes the doors had been open. He wasn't crying out loud anymore; he was letting out short, wet gasps that sounded like a dry pump working against empty pipes.

"Take him out," Roman said.

"He's perfectly comfortable, Roman," Evelyn said smoothly, though her eyes flicked toward her driver, signaling him to close the door. "I'm taking him to my house for the afternoon. The air conditioning in your nursery has been rattling all morning, and with all these... unsavory men arriving at your gates at all hours, I decided my home is a more suitable environment for Claire's son today."

"Take him out, Evelyn," Roman repeated. He hadn't raised his voice by a single decibel, but the tone made the driver step back two inches from the Bentley's frame, his hands rising slightly away from his waist.

"He is my sister's child!" Evelyn hissed, her composure finally cracking around the edges like dried enamel. "Claire died because of your ridiculous games! Because your men blocked the driveway! Because you were so afraid of the police seeing who was inside your house that you let her lie on the floor bleeding into her brain for twenty minutes! I won't let you kill her son too!"

Roman stopped three feet from her.

The mention of Claire’s name hit him like a physical blow, but his face did not move. Not a single muscle twitched in his dark cheek. Only his eyes seemed to narrow, the pale green turning into something cold, gray, and flat.

"If you don't step away from that door in three seconds, Evelyn," Roman said softly, "I will have Marco put you in the back of your driver's car and lock the gate from the outside. And your lawyers won't be able to reach you until Monday morning."

"You wouldn't dare," she breathed.

Roman didn't answer her. He reached out, placed his large hand against her shoulder, and moved her aside. He didn't use excessive force, but the weight of his arm moved her three feet onto the gravel as if she were made of dry straw.

He leaned into the back seat of the Bentley.

The heat inside the car hit his face like an open oven door. The leather was burning to the touch.

Roman reached down, his broad hands awkward, thick, and trembling slightly as he fumbled with the blue plastic buckle of the infant harness. He had never unbuckled this car seat before. He had never bought one. He had left all of those details to nurses, to housekeepers, to people he paid to make sure his son remained safe behind high stone walls.

"Come here," Roman rasped, his voice breaking on the second word.

He slid his fingers under Nicholas’s small arms, supporting the heavy, warm weight of the baby's head with his right palm. As he lifted him out of the car into the bright lowcountry sunlight, Nicholas let out a thin, weak cry, his small, damp face pressing directly against Roman’s linen shirt.

The baby’s skin felt like a warm stone left in the sun.

Roman stood on the gravel path, holding the child against his chest with both arms locked tight around the blue cotton onesie. He looked at Evelyn, who was standing by the oak tree, her breathing fast and ragged, her hand clutch her pearl necklace.

"If I ever see your car inside my gates again, Evelyn," Roman said, turning his back on her, "I won't call Charles Vane. I will call the sheriff, and I will tell him you tried to take an infant across county lines without a legal order. Now get out."

He didn't wait to see her leave. He walked back toward the service archway, his long legs moving quickly now, his eyes fixed on the small, warm head resting against his collarbone.

Nico’s small fist was clenched tightly around the top button of Roman’s dress shirt, pulling the fabric taut against his neck.