Chapter 3 - The Currency of the Nursery
The neonatal intensive care unit was separated from the standard maternity ward by a set of double glass doors that required a magnetic keycard entry. Mateo Cruz was standing beside the reception desk, his coat off, his shoulder holster visible against his blue Oxford shirt. He was eating a glazed donut from a paper napkin, his eyes tracking the movements of two cleaning staff who were working their way down the corridor with a floor buffer.
"The kid looks like you, boss," Mateo said as Alessandro approached. He tossed the napkin into a waste bin. "He’s got that line between his eyebrows. The one you get when the numbers don't add up."
"Is he alone?" Alessandro asked, looking through the glass viewing window into the row of small, clear plastic bassinets.
"Two nurses inside," Mateo said. "Both cleared by the office. No other family members on the floor. The Costa people haven't shown their faces within five blocks of the building. If they know she’s here, they’re keeping their heads down."
Alessandro walked to the window. In the third bassinet from the left, wrapped in a standard hospital blanket with pink and blue stripes, was the child. His skin was still slightly red, his fists bunched tightly against his cheeks, his head covered in a fine layer of dark hair that matched Alessandro's own exactly. A small white plastic card was tucked into the slot at the front of the bassinet: Mercer, Boy. 11/12/2026.
Alessandro pressed his palm against the glass. The material was cold, separating him from the child by a quarter-inch of industrial acrylic.
"Mateo," he said softly.
"Yeah, boss?"
"When Genevieve was twenty, before we were married, her father had a small textile mill in Fall River," Alessandro said, his eyes never leaving the baby’s face. "The union workers went on strike for three months because the pension fund had been cleared out by the senior partners. Her father wanted to bring in strikebreakers from Boston—men with iron pipes and dogs. Genevieve sat on the steps of the mill for four days in the rain until her father agreed to sign the collective agreement. She was twenty years old, Mateo. She didn't know anything about the commission or the families. She just knew that the men who worked the looms shouldn't have to sleep on the floor."
He withdrew his hand from the glass, leaving a faint, clearing mist from his skin. "A woman like that doesn't run away because she’s afraid of a rival family. She doesn't hide in a three-room apartment in Queens because she thinks the Costas are going to breach the kitchen window. She runs because she thinks the house she’s living in is already on fire."
"She’s a sensitive woman, Alessandro," Mateo said, leaning his bulk against the wall. "The life... it’s not for everyone. The guards at the gate, the car checks, the way people clear out of the restaurant when you walk in. Some women want a normal kitchen. They want to go to the grocery store without a driver checking the wheel wells for tracking devices."
"She knew what I was when she took the ring, Mateo," Alessandro said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, flat register. "She sat at the table when we signed the peace with the Morettis in twenty-four. She didn't blink when the underboss from Chicago dropped his weapon on the linen cloth. She’s not weak."
He turned back toward the main corridor. "Get the car ready. We’re moving her to the private floor at the townhouse on 72nd Street tonight. I don't want her in this hospital when the morning papers hit the stands."
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"And the kid?"
"The kid stays with his mother," Alessandro said. "But the certificate will read Romano. Tell the clerk that if the name Mercer appears on the final printout, the hospital’s medical director will find his license suspended by the state board before the noon recess."
