Take care of a baby for the Mafia

At three in the morning, I got a call from my mother, Deborah. Loud sobbing came through the receiver. "Chloe, come to Brooklyn Public Hospital right now," she cried. "Elena had a baby, but it's critical." My sister Elena, from what I know, she's single, no boyfriend,not married. I threw on a coat and rushed out the door. I took a cab to the hospital. Deborah sat on a plastic chair in the hallway. She clutched a hospital baby blanket tightly to her chest. I scanned the hallway. No Elena. I checked the ward. Elena wasn't here at all. "Where is Elena?" I asked. Deborah looked up. Her eyes were swollen like walnuts. "Boarded a flight." She stood up and shoved the bundle into my arms. The sudden weight forced me to take a step back. A tiny face peeked out from the striped blanket. The face was red and wrinkled. My brain couldn't process this. Deborah continued. "Elena bought a ticket to Milan. She should be at the airport by now. She gave birth, and then she left." I looked down at the baby in my arms. The cut umbilical cord was still wrapped in gauze. the baby's eyes were closed. His mouth opened and closed. My brain buzzed. "Call her." "The number is canceled." I pulled out my phone. I tried to contact Elena through all her social media accounts. I found out she had blocked me on everything. I stood in the hallway. I held a newborn baby. I froze in place. Deborah tugged at my sleeve. "Elena wants you to take care of him for her. Her modeling career is finally taking off. She can't be dragged down by a baby right now." I found this completely unreasonable. "She had a baby, and she wants me to raise him? She can't be dragged down by a baby, so what about me?" Deborah looked me up and down. Her gaze lingered on my plain clothes and messy low ponytail for a moment. "You are not like Elena. You are not as pretty as her, and you don't have any ambitions." "Do you even know me at all? I am nineteen years old. I work as a waitress in Manhattan. Rent takes up half my paycheck. How am I supposed to raise a child?" Deborah ignored me. She just kept crying. "Elena said we can't give the baby to an adoption agency. You have to raise him. The baby's father... he is someone we can't afford to cross. If they find out, we are dead." Then she threw a plastic bag of hospital items at my feet. She walked quickly down the hallway and left. I kicked the bag. Among the items was a piece of hotel stationery. The content read: *The baby's father is Dante Falcone. Don't look for him. You can't afford to cross him.* I took out my phone. I typed this name into the search bar. The search results appeared on the screen: Dante Falcone. The head of the Falcone family in New York. A man who used a large hedge fund as a cover, but actually controlled Manhattan's underworld. In the photo, he wore a suit. His jawline was sharp. His eyes were cold. I stared at the warning on the paper. I folded the note and stuffed it into my pocket. The baby in my arms suddenly whimpered. A tiny fist reached out from the swaddle. He grabbed my collar. I said to him, "Peanut, you're Little Peanut now. Tomorrow I’ll take you to find your dad." ***** The next morning, I asked my boss for time off. I bought formula, newborn diapers, and two glass bottles. This spent almost my entire food budget for the month. I went back to my apartment. I mixed the formula. I sat on the edge of the sagging mattress and fed Peanut. Then I changed his diaper. He fell asleep right after eating. He was unusually quiet for a newborn child. I dug through the tote bag Elena left behind. There was a file folder inside. Just as I opened it, I received a text message from an unknown number. *Chloe, I'm sorry. I can't take care of this baby, and I can't face his father. You're tougher than me. I feel safe leaving him with you. I told Mom. Don't hate me.* But inside the manila envelope was her schedule. Don't hate her？ She had booked a one-way ticket to Milan three months before her due date. She canceled her phone number. She deleted all her contacts. After giving birth, she didn't even stay in the delivery room for an extra hour. This was a premeditated abandonment. It wasn't a lack of options. I wrapped the baby tightly in the hospital blanket. I walked out of the apartment building. I hailed a yellow cab. Then I took out the note with Dante's name on it. I said to the driver, "To the Falcone family headquarters building. In Midtown."

I push open the heavy glass doors of Falcone Tower and walk inside. The lobby smells of expensive espresso and floor wax. Stylish men and women hurry past me. Their heels click sharply against the marble floor. I am wearing a faded gray hoodie. My sneakers are worn out, the tops smeared with mud from rushing here. Peanut squirms restlessly in the cheap, rough blanket from the public hospital. A blonde receptionist looks at me. She stares like I am a delivery driver in the wrong building. "Do you have an appointment, miss?" she asks. "No appointment," I say. "I'm looking for Dante Falcone." She immediately exchanges a look with the security guard. "I'm sorry, but we don't accept walk-in visitors. You can leave your..." Her professionalism makes her go through the routine of taking a message, but I cut her off. "I'm here to drop off his child." She stares at me, completely stunned. Her eyes lock onto the small bundle in my arms. "Miss, we don't accept—" "Just pass on the message," I say. "Tell him his son is here." I walk over to a lobby sofa and sit down. Peanut starts to cry. I support him with one hand and dig through my bag for a bottle with the other. People walking by stare at me. The two receptionists whisper to each other and make a phone call. Five minutes later, the private elevator lets out a sharp ding. A man steps out. He wears a sharp navy suit. He is in his early thirties, wears glasses, and walks with purpose. He stops right in front of the sofa and looks down at me. "Hello, I am Mr. Falcone's secretary," he says. "And you are?" "Chloe Miller." "Miss Miller, about the... child you mentioned. Can you elaborate?" I answer him, but my eyes stay on Peanut. "I will explain this to Dante Falcone in person. No one else." "Mr. Falcone does not receive visitors without an appointment." "Then I'll wait." I don't move. I just adjust the bottle in Peanut's mouth. Peanut coughs. Milk bubbles at the corner of his mouth. His little face turns bright red. I quickly pull the bottle away. I lift him upright against my shoulder and pat his back with my palm. A loud burp echoes through the lobby. The man in the suit watches me for a few seconds. He dials a number on his phone and speaks a few low words in Italian. He hangs up and gestures toward the elevator. "Follow me," he mutters. ***** The elevator goes straight to the sixty-second floor. The doors open. The hallway is so quiet I can hear the hum of the air conditioning. The secretary pushes open the door at the end of the hall and signals for me to enter. The office is ridiculously huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Hudson River. Dante Falcone sits behind a massive mahogany desk. He looks like his photos online, but he is colder in person. He looks at me. His face holds zero expression. He stares like he is looking at an unimportant document. "Who are you?" he asks. I walk straight to his desk. I don't hesitate. I place the swaddled Peanut directly onto the polished wood surface. Peanut scrunches up his face. He just finished eating. A white ring of milk coats his lips. "Sign for your son," I say. Dante doesn't change his expression. He leans back in his leather chair and studies me. He doesn't look at the baby. He just stares at me. "What do you want?" he asks. His voice is low and flat. "Elena Miller," I say. "I'm her sister." His brow twitches. It is very slight, but I see it. "Where is she?" "Milan. She took a flight early yesterday morning. She ran off right after giving birth. She canceled her phone number, blocked me on all social media, and vanished." I throw the file folder onto the desk. "The birth certificate is inside. Mother: Elena Miller. The father's section is blank, but she said it's you. If you think this is bullshit, get a DNA test." Dante doesn't touch the folder. He leans back in his chair and finally looks at the baby on the desk. The baby moves. A tiny hand reaches out and touches the fountain pen resting on the desk. "You came here," Dante says. "What do you want?" "I don't want anything. the baby is yours. You deal with him. I have no obligation to help you raise your child." "What if I say this child has nothing to do with me?" "Then do the DNA test. The results take three days. Find me when they come out." I pull a piece of paper from my pocket. It has my phone number and apartment address written on it. I slap it onto his desk. "Three days." I turn around and walk away. I walk toward the heavy oak doors. Behind me, Peanut lets out a sharp, piercing cry. That sound hits my chest hard. My hand touches the brass doorknob. My entire body freezes. But I don't look back. I keep walking.