Chapter 4 - Blood and Formula
The private nursery suite was connected to a small, auxiliary kitchenette—a miniature annex Roman had installed during the seventh month of her pregnancy so she wouldn't have to navigate the three flights of stairs to the main kitchen in the middle of the night. It was an immaculate little room of white quartz countertops, custom blush cabinetry, and a small under-counter refrigerator, lit only by the soft, warm glow of an under-cabinet LED strip.
Aaron carried Sophie on her left hip, supporting the baby's fragile neck with her palm, while her right hand reached into the cupboard for a clean glass bottle.
The physical toll of the last six days was catching up to her in waves of dizziness. Her milk had come in late and painfully; her breasts were tender and feverish, yet every pump session yielded barely two ounces of watery colostrum—her body too exhausted, too stressed, too flooded with cortisol to nourish her child. The pediatrician had quietly handed her three cans of high-calorie infant formula before discharge, whispering: "Stress dries up the well faster than illness, Mrs. Moretti. Feed the baby. Do not punish yourself."
Aaron filled the glass bottle with warm water from the instant kettle, measuring out two level scoops of powder with trembling fingers. The yellow formula dissolved into a pale, milky cloud as she swirled the nipple collar into place.
Sophie began to root aggressively against Aaron’s chest, letting out small, frustrated whimpers that threatened to turn into a full-throated cry.
"Just a second, my love," Aaron murmured, resting her cheek against the baby's soft curls. "Almost ready. Mama’s got it."
She tested a drop of the milk against the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. It was warm—blood-temperature.
She turned to walk back to the nursery’s rocking chair when the phone on the quartz counter vibrated.
It wasn't her primary phone—the gold iPhone Roman had given her, synced to the mansion’s encrypted internal network, where every outgoing call was routed through his security server in the basement. It was her personal phone—an old, black device she had kept on a separate, private prepaid plan, hidden in the bottom of her vanity case, its number known only to her sister in Chicago and two former college friends.
The screen lit up against the white marble.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
Aaron froze. In Roman's world, an unknown number was rarely an accident. It was usually an extortion attempt, an offshore courier, or a warning from an opposing crew. Her first instinct was to ignore it—to leave it buzzing against the stone until the screen died. But then the screen went black, and an icon appeared:
1 NEW VOICEMAIL (00:42).
Her heart gave a violent, sickening thump against her ribs.
She settled Sophie into the crook of her left arm, sliding the silicone nipple into the baby's eager mouth. The newborn latched instantly, her small hands resting against Aaron’s breast, the rhythmic sound of her suckling filling the small kitchen. With her free right hand, Aaron lifted the phone, unlocked the screen, and pressed the receiver to her ear.
The recording started with three seconds of heavy, metallic static—the acoustic signature of a burner phone operating near high-voltage lines or within a moving vehicle.
Then, a voice spoke.
It wasn't Roman. And it wasn't Laya.
It was a man's voice—low, gravelly, speaking with the thick, clipped cadence of the Chicago North Side docks. The voice was calm, conversational, and chillingly precise.
The audience never heard the full message. Through the tiny earpiece, only muffled, distorted fragments leaked into the quiet of the nursery kitchen:
“...Roman thinks he’s playing both sides of the river, but the Cassani family already signed the transfer... he’s giving them the Kenosha line tonight at Bacchus... but Carmine wants the collateral cleaned up before the grand jury convenes... the house in River Hills isn't secure, Aaron... they know the security codes for the north gatehouse... he traded your father’s audit records to clear his own federal indictment... by morning, there won't be an audit, and there won't be a wife to testify...”
The recording clicked. A dead tone droned in her ear.
Aaron’s fingers went completely numb.
The phone slipped half an inch before her thumb caught the edge, her breath seizing in her throat until her vision swam with bright, dancing spots of black. Her skin, already pale from surgery, turned the sickly, translucent color of skimmed milk.
Her husband hadn't just gone to dinner with his former mistress.
May you like
He hadn't just abandoned his six-day-old daughter on a rainy Tuesday to celebrate a birthday.
He had traded her.
