Chapter Four

Claire

I didn't sleep.

I couldn't.

There was a palpable tension in the mansion that night, men coming and going, everyone tense, faces tight, eyes… fearful.

Fearful of what?

Of who?

Warren, because he was a miserable fuck when he had a sniffle, let alone a bullet wound?

Or the consequences of his actions back at the docks?

Of the people they'd ambushed that, I prayed, made it out alive.

Especially the one with the kind eyes.

The one who wanted to save me before he even warned his men.

Aurelio Grassi.

Grassi.

Italian.

And, given this world Warren operated in, that meant that this man was a criminal as well.

And, also in this underground world full of criminals, men with Italian last names typically meant one thing.

The mafia.

Had Warren really gotten cocky enough to think he could take on the mob?

I mean, I knew the answer was a resounding Yes before the question finished forming in my mind.

Because, yes, Warren was always cocky enough to think he had the upper hand. His ego refused to acknowledge that there was some other organization that was as good as his, with as ruthless and cunning a leader as he was.

Admittedly, though, I did sort of hope that the Grassi organization, or whatever they might be called, wasn't led by such a lunatic.

I mean, it couldn't be, right? With a man ready to save a strange woman handcuffed in a car?

I mean, Warren's men walked by me day in and day out, knowing Judah and I were prisoners here, and not giving a shit about us or our situation.

Bad leaders created bad men, it seemed.

It went to say, then, that good leaders fostered good men, right?

I couldn't say why I cared so much that this Aurelio Grassi guy was a good man.

I guess you could chalk it up to two long years of not seeing one, without knowing one. Long enough to almost forget such a thing existed.

I knew one thing for sure as I looked down at Judah as he started to stir when the sun began to filter into the room. The future would have a good man. I would do everything in my power to shape Judah into one.

I waited for him to wake himself fully up, turning to look out of the windows.

You might be thinking here: Hey, there are windows in the room! Just sneak out one of them.

I wish it was that easy.

I learned the day after Warren had dragged me and Judah into this house. Because, like any person, a window—especially oversized windows on the ground floor—sure looked a hell of a lot like freedom.

What I hadn't realized as I clutched my newborn to my heavy chest, aching in ways I never could have imagined before delivery as I climbed out of the window, was that there was a silent alarm on the windows.

I got all of twenty feet down the driveway before I was seized by arms, before my son was pulled away from me, handed to a maid, and I was dragged back to Warren's room.

Where he showed me what happened when I tried to run away. Tried to take his son from him.

I truly believe the only thing that kept him from killing me that night was the way my milk started to soak through my shirt because Judah was overdue for a feeding.

And, somewhere in Warren's sick, dead heart, was the belief that his son deserved to have everything done ‘just right' to give him the best chance in life.

That meant a mother's milk.

It meant a strict diet for said mother to be on, so I provided the best nutrients possible.

It meant that I got to have my son in my arms every night.

And, as Judah got older, got conscious of things like cuts and bruises, it meant he stopped leaving marks on me.

But, as it turned out, Warren Graves didn't need to enact physical violence on me to still keep absolute control over me.

Because he controlled my son.

I watched as the weekly grocery delivery van pulled up the driveway, backing up toward the kitchen, before I forced my gaze away.

"Hey, buddy," I said as I turned to find Judah standing at his crib bars, smiling at me.

I got him dressed for his day before settling him on my hip, and heading into the kitchen.

"What do you want for breakfast?" I asked him as we walked into the all-white kitchen. White tile floors, white tile backsplash, white cabinets, white quartz countertops. The only spot of color were the stainless steel appliances. If you could even count that. "How about some eggs with—" I started, then heard a chorus of male voices moving through the house.

Curious, I moved toward Judah, pretending that putting on his bib was an intricate task as I let my gaze slide toward the doorway, seeing the guards move past the kitchen. Likely toward Warren's office.

So, he'd lived through the night.

Unfortunately.

Did a part of me feel bad for wishing for the death of my son's father? I mean, yeah. But the larger part of me knew just what Warren would turn my sweet boy into if given the chance to do so.

The thing was, as I pretended not to look, I realized it wasn't just some of the guards.

Oh, no.

It was all of them.

All of them.

My head whipped to the side, looking out the side door toward the driveway.

Where the driver in his khakis and black polo was bringing reusable bags toward the front door. Leaving the running van… unattended.

I didn't stop to think.

I didn't even consider the chance that one of the guards was maybe still loitering around the grounds.

I just whipped Judah out of the chair, yanked open the door, and ran.

My heartbeat was slamming in my chest as Judah let out a little giggle, excited by the sudden adventure, even though I was practically crushing him against me.

My gaze oscillated around the grounds and back toward the house, trying to tell if anyone was around, if someone could be seeing me.

Warren's office was on the other side of the building. So he and his men couldn't possibly see me as I got to the van, finding one of the solid back doors ever so slightly ajar.

"Thank you thank you thank you," I whispered to the heavens as I yanked open the door, and climbed inside, closing it with as quiet a click as possible.

The inside of the van was cramped.

Both sides were lined with metal shelving filled with multi-colored bins, each bin almost overflowing with bags. More deliveries to be done.

There was a small gap between the shelving units and the back door, and I squished my body into it, squeezing as small as possible, holding Judah tightly against me, so we wouldn't be seen if he climbed in and looked back.

There was a straight path up the center of the van and to the front seats, making me hope that when we reached the next stop, I could walk upward as he climbed out, then slip out the front before he could even know we were there.

I tensed as I heard footsteps coming closer, some part of me terrified it was Warren, that he would drag us right back to our hell. In front of the driver. He wouldn't care. He would shoot the driver if he had to.

But the footsteps came to the back, and the van jolted a bit as he shoved at the doors, likely remembering leaving one slightly ajar.

Then he moved toward the front and I felt my belly wobble as I had to press my hand over Judah's mouth, saying a silent prayer that he wouldn't fight me, that he wouldn't shriek under my hand.

He looked up at me with those big brown eyes, then reached out to press his hand over my mouth.

Though as the van turned over, my fears about Judah being heard slipped away as the driver's metal music started to blast from the speakers.

I released my hold on Judah's mouth, mainly so I could grab the built-in shelving units with a death grip as the van started to make its way down the winding driveway, and down the road.

We weren't stopped.

Not as we turned out of the driveway, as we made our way down the road.

We just… kept driving.

Hope, something that had been more of a distant desire than a possible reality, swelled in my chest as Judah patty-caked against my chest, as he tugged on my necklace, as he used both of his hands to smush my lips and push up my eyelids.

This was it.

This was our shot at freedom.

Eventually, the van pulled to a stop, and I released the shelf to press my hand over Judah's mouth once again as the music lowered, then the van shifted as the driver climbed out.

I didn't pause.

I rushed up the van silently in my sock-clad feet, making my way toward the passenger side, since it was the one facing away from the house, quietly opened the door, and rushed out, making my way across the lawn toward the neighbor's house, then down the driveway.

I likely looked insane, wide-eyed, without shoes, carrying a baby down the street. No purse. No carriage.

No… nothing.

I had… nothing.

No purse, no ID, no credit cards or cash.

I kicked myself for not considering this part more.

There were obvious options, of course.

The police station or the local women's shelter.

The problem was that I knew that Warren had some of the local police in his pocket. I'd been in the SUV when he'd met up with them on dark streets, handing them envelopes I'd guessed were full of cash.

If I showed up there, making allegations, how was I to know that someone wouldn't send the information back to Warren?

No.

The police weren't an option.

The women's shelter would be accustomed to sticky situations like mine. But I didn't believe Warren was above barging in and shooting people just to get to us. Even if he didn't, what chance did I have if this went to court?

I had no proof of abuse.

Nothing in writing.

No evidence.

I also didn't presently have a job, an apartment, any money to my name, save for maybe what was left in my bank account. I had no family to go to.

I had nothing.

And Warren had… everything.

What if they took my baby from me and gave him to Warren?

No.

Nope.

I couldn't even attempt legal channels.

What then?

Where could I go with nothing to my name? With no way to start over?

Desperation started to claw at my chest as Judah got heavier and heavier in my arms. But I couldn't put him down. He didn't have shoes on.

I had to just keep pressing on, keep moving, get off the streets.

Because once Warren knew we were gone, he would move heaven and Earth to get us back. There'd be a full-on manhunt.

I walked out of the neighborhood and straight onto the main area of town.

Then, like a small beacon of light to my ship lost at sea, I saw it.

The library.

Somewhere free.

Somewhere to set my baby down, to occupy him with books and puzzles as I tried to figure out what my next move would be.

They likely wouldn't look twice at Judah's sock-clad feet. Not all babies wear shoes all the time. But mine? Mine might be a problem.

I just tried to rush through the doors and into the children's section, setting Judah at the puzzle table, and kneeling on the floor next to him, and sitting on my feet, hiding them.

I sucked in my first deep breath as I watched Judah try to shove a whale into a little betta fish hole in the puzzle, doing so with the certainty that he was right, stabbing and stabbing.

Normally, I would have talked him through it, tried to guide him to find the right answer himself.

But my mind was scattered in a million places.

There were other things to worry about than Judah's ability to figure out a puzzle.

My gaze moved around, seeing the adult section across the building, a line of computers sitting there.

If I had a card, I could use those endlessly to try to figure out my next move.

I had to get us somewhere.

I had to feed Judah.

And my mind was coming up blank.

But I had no library card. And no money to pay to use them. Even if I knew what to look for.

I was reaching to pick up a puzzle piece that flew off the table when a movement out of the windows had my heart fluttering in my chest.

A flash of a gray suit.

My mind immediately filled in the blanks.

An intolerably handsome face, amazing lashes, and warm brown eyes.

Aurelio Grassi.

It wasn't him, of course, I noticed as I saw the cane moving next to his leg.

But suddenly, I had an idea.

I could go to him.

Aurelio Grassi.

The man with the kind eyes.

The one who'd tried to save me once.

Surely, he would do so again?

Especially after I warned him of the impending danger with Warren?

I wouldn't ask for much. A place to rest and think for an hour or two. Something to feed Judah. Then maybe a ride out of town.

To where? I didn't know.

But I needed to break this problem down into steps. And then tackle only one at a time.

The first step, of course, was to find Aurelio Grassi.

I could use the computers to do that.

Bringing Judah with me, I made a pass by the computers, seeing the frozen screen on the unused ones, asking for your library card number. That was all I needed. A number.

Surely, I could find one of those.

I jiggled Judah, trying to distract him from his grumbling tummy, as, finally, I saw it.

A card sitting on a table next to someone's notebook and scattered assortment of pens.

I didn't stop to second-guess myself.

I ripped off a piece of that notebook paper off and quickly jotted down the number before walking right up to a computer, Judah facing me so he didn't mess with the keys, and plugged in the card information.

The screen opened.

And I had access to the internet.

It was surprisingly, almost alarmingly, easy to find someone's—anyone's—address online.

All you needed, really, was a name and a town.

I tried a few local towns before I remembered the docks, then looked them up.

Navesink Bank.

Aurelio Grassi, Navesink Bank.

And there it was.

An address.

I brought up another window, plugging in the address of his home and this library, finding directions.

Only about a fifteen-minute drive.

But I had no way to drive there.

I toggled over to walk, and my heart sank at seeing it would take almost two and a half hours.

Judah would be miserable by then.

Hungry, inconsolable.

My arms would be jelly.

My feet raw.

But… what other choice did I have?

This was survival.

We could survive two and a half hours of misery to get to a better future.

So I painstakingly jotted down the directions on my stolen piece of paper.

Then I took Judah to the water fountain, watching him giggle and drink the water that I hoped would help artificially fill up his tummy for a bit, then I hiked him up on my hip, and I started our long walk toward freedom, praying that Warren wouldn't happen by as we made our way there.

My heart was in my throat for the entire first—blessedly overcast—hour as we walked down a busy road, me constantly having to shift the restless Judah from hip to hip before, finally, putting him up on my shoulders to give my arms a short break.

After the main road, though, we found ourselves in a neighborhood. Quiet. Safe. Making us look a little less out of place. Surely lots of moms walked around with their babies in their neighborhood.

And as any mom knew, toddlers were moody and unpredictable. So when Judah's hunger made him whimper then start to wail, it didn't exactly draw any attention.

Half an hour of crying later, my heart squeezing, my ears buzzing, he cried himself to sleep.

There were tears in my eyes, feeling like the worst mother in the world as I kept walking. And walking. And walking.

Until, finally, my directions told me I'd made it to his street.

Fairmount Avenue.

I liked the sound of that.

It was an affluent area full of beautiful, large houses. Not exactly mansions, but large, large houses that, in this area, likely cost well over a million each.

Each was different than the last, no two homes or even styles the same. Colonials and Victorians, Tudors and Georgians.

According to my search, Aurelio Grassi lived at number sixteen.

I glanced side to side, finding the right one at a distance.

It was something I might call a Modern Farmhouse, but almost with a gothic twist. There were black accents on the front mixed with gray-wash stones.

The front gardens weren't overly fussy, but full of perennial shrubs that made it look neat, but welcoming.

My breath shook through my chest as I sucked it in, then forced myself to make my way up the front path.

There was a car in the driveway.

He had to be home.

He had to be.

Tears pricked my eyes again as I pressed my finger into the doorbell.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then, finally, the door pulled open.

And there he was.