‘Take Nothing of Mine,’ the Mafia Boss Ordered – Unaware She Carried the One Thing He Could Not…

The handbags

The handbags.

The winter coats.

The stupid little gold bracelet he bought because I once stopped in front of a jewelry-store window for three seconds too long.

When I came downstairs, Matteo stood beside the staircase.

I expected regret.

That was my last mistake.

He opened the front door himself.

Freezing rain blew across the foyer.

“You wanted loyalty,” I said quietly. “Maybe someday you’ll realize you threw it away.”

His face didn’t move.

“Get out.”

So I did.

No umbrella.

No purse.

No car.

I walked down his driveway in thirty-eight-degree rain while two black SUVs idled near the gates.

Nobody offered me a ride.

At the road, I finally stopped.

Not because I was broken.

Because I remembered what was sitting in the pocket of my sweatpants.

A drugstore receipt.

And a photograph I had taken that morning.

Two pink lines.

Pregnant.

I pressed my hand over my lower belly.

That morning, I had stood barefoot on cold bathroom tile, staring at that test and laughing like an idiot.

I had imagined telling Matteo over dinner.

Maybe he would freeze.

Maybe swear.

Maybe put both hands on my stomach.

Maybe, just once, look happy instead of dangerous.

Now?

I looked back at the giant house glowing behind iron gates.

“You told me to take nothing of yours,” I whispered.

Rain ran into my mouth.

I almost smiled.

“You’re going to regret that.”

I never told him.

I caught a ride from a waitress finishing the night shift at a diner near Highland Park.

She gave me black coffee in a Styrofoam cup and asked whether my boyfriend had hit me.

“No,” I said.

Somehow, that felt worse.

Three days later, I was on a bus east.

Six months later, I was eight months pregnant and serving pancakes at a roadside diner outside Portland, Maine.

Five years later, I owned the bakery downstairs from my apartment.

And my son, Leo, had his father’s eyes.

I thought Chicago had finally forgotten us.

Then, one cold Tuesday morning, the bell above my bakery door jingled.

I looked up.

Tobias Lombardi stood on the other side of my pastry case.

And all the color drained from his face.

Then Leo came running toward me.

That was when I knew five years of hiding had just ended.

PART 2 — Matteo’s lieutenant saw my son and recognized him instantly.

“Mommy, my green crayon broke.”

Leo ran from the little table near the front window holding two pieces of crayon like somebody had ruined his retirement plan.

I moved fast.

Too late.

Tobias saw him.

His eyes dropped to Leo’s face.

Then stopped.

Leo had my brown curls and dimples.

Everything else was Matteo.

The gray eyes.

The serious eyebrows.

The tiny annoyed crease between them.

Even the way he folded his arms when suspicious.

Tobias whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

I stepped between them.

“You’re leaving.”

“Hazel—”

“Now.”

The bakery smelled like cinnamon, coffee, and the blueberry scones cooling behind me.

Normal smells.

My life smelled normal.

I intended to keep it that way.

Tobias lowered his voice.

“Matteo thought you were dead.”

“I’m sure he survived.”

“He barely did.”

I laughed.

“He threw me into freezing rain wearing Walmart sweatpants.”

“He spent years looking for you.”

“He knew exactly where I was when he opened the door.”

That shut him up.

Leo tugged my apron.

“Mom?”

“I’m okay, baby.”

Tobias stared at him again.

“How old?”

“None of your business.”

“Hazel.”

I reached beneath the counter and pulled out the cast-iron rolling pin I kept near the register after two drunk college kids tried climbing through my window the previous summer.

Tobias actually took a step backward.

“Forget you saw us.”

“I can’t.”

“Then learn.”

He left.

I locked the door behind him.

Ten minutes later, I called my lawyer, Melissa Grant.

Not Matteo.

My lawyer.

Because five years of being alone had taught me something useful.

Fear feels different when you have paperwork.

By noon, Melissa had copies of Leo’s birth certificate, my bakery deed, my bank records, my emergency custody documents, and the sealed letter I had prepared years earlier explaining exactly who Matteo Lombardi was.

“If he comes,” she told me, “you call me before you agree to anything.”

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown Chicago number.

One photograph loaded.

My bakery.

Taken from across the street.

Under it were four words.

HE KNOWS ABOUT LEO.

I closed the blinds.

Upstairs, I packed.