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Marcelo and I sat on either side of the car seat. Silent.

Marcelo's gaze landed on my face first. When I ignored him, he looked at Leon. His fingers curled on his knee, repeatedly lifting to tuck the slipping blanket corner, then forcibly restraining himself when he caught my cold profile.

Suddenly, the car hit a seam in the highway pavement, jolting slightly.

Leon's small brow furrowed in the car seat. His chubby hand grasped aimlessly at air, dark brown curls rustling against the pillow. His mouth parted, releasing an incredibly muddled yet impossibly clear sleep-murmur from deep in his throat.

"...mm... Daddy..."

The crisp, childish whisper exploded like thunder in the silent, enclosed space!

Marcelo and I froze simultaneously.

The air seemed instantly sucked from the car.

Marcelo's body shook violently. That face—usually covered in cold blood and killing intent—stripped bare of all defenses in an instant. His breathing turned rough and urgent. He whipped toward me, eyes bloodshot, gray-green pupils churning with four years of suppressed longing, hope, and shattering plea.

He was waiting for a nod.

The slightest permission from me, and he'd gather that sleeping child into his arms in the next second, tear away all pretense, and rightfully answer that word—"Daddy."

A streetlight's beam swept across his face, illuminating the deepest desire in his eyes.

I clenched the sharp coat button in my palm, chest splitting with dull agony. Looking at our child's sleeping face, those nights in Venice crying alone in storms, that agony on the delivery bed nearly killing me—all surged back like frozen tide over reason.

Meeting his gaze—hot enough to burn through anyone—I drew a deep breath. Slowly, resolutely, I shook my head.

A silent yet crushing verdict.

Every spark of light in Marcelo's eyes extinguished in that instant, leaving nothing but desolate wasteland.

The bloodshot deepened. His throat worked painfully. Finally, he lowered his eyes. Said nothing.

The car fell back into death-like silence.

I looked away toward the window, glass reflecting my tense, pale face. Outside, neon bled like stretched blood, sliding past inch by inch.

A faint thread of reluctance—like a needle dipped in warm poison—pierced my heart without warning, drawing a single drop of blood.

Chapter 32

Ruby

The temporary workshop in Manhattan's Garment District stood empty except for me.

The wall clock read 2:20 AM. Outside, New York never slept—ambulance sirens screamed in the distance, mixing with the heavy bass thumping from late-night bars.

I rubbed my throbbing temples, staring at the dress on the form that needed one final alteration.

This was the centerpiece of the "Wild Rose" collection—an evening gown designed for pregnant women. The stretch velvet and silk blend draped perfectly over the model's curves, the hidden button system at the waistline adjusted to optimal tension.

But the neckline.

The goddamn neckline still wasn't right.

I needed a special lace that could support breast weight without leaving marks on skin—the kind of hand-woven antique lace that only existed in European court couture from the 1940s.

I'd hit every fabric supplier in Manhattan. The answers were all the same: "That only exists in museums" or "At least three months custom order."