Chapter 2 - The Penthouse Had Rules
At 1:18 in the morning, Natasha stepped into Simon Gambino’s penthouse overlooking Manhattan.
She had expected luxury.
She hadn’t expected a fortress.
Bullet-resistant windows.
Private elevator.
Security cameras.
Armed men stationed discreetly throughout the residence.
And in the middle of the living room sat a Steinway grand piano.
Natasha stopped.
“You work fast.”
Simon removed his jacket.
“You asked for a piano.”
“That was forty minutes ago.”
“I dislike waiting.”
“I noticed.”
A woman in her fifties approached.
“Miss Reynolds, I’m Teresa. I manage the household.”
“Natasha is fine.”
Teresa smiled.
“Your room is ready.”
Natasha turned to Simon.
“My room?”
“You said you weren’t a prisoner. Prisoners don’t normally get twelve-hundred-square-foot guest suites.”
“Very comforting.”
Simon ignored the sarcasm.
“Teresa will show you everything.”
Natasha looked toward the nursery.
“I want to see the boys first.”
Simon paused.
Then nodded.
The nursery looked like a luxury baby store had exploded inside it.
Electronic bassinets.
Imported toys.
Three monitors.
Two sound machines.
Color-changing lights.
Natasha stared.
“What?”
Simon asked.
“This room is a nightmare.”
Teresa looked horrified.
Simon’s eyes narrowed.
“It cost almost two hundred thousand dollars.”
“That doesn’t make it less of a nightmare.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Everything.”
Natasha began unplugging devices.
Simon caught her wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping your sons.”
“By turning off equipment my doctors recommended?”
“Your doctors don’t live with them.”
His grip remained around her wrist.
Natasha looked down at his hand.
“Rule number one.”
Simon released her.
“What rule?”
“Don’t grab me.”
Something passed through his expression.
Then he stepped back.
“Fine.”
Natasha dimmed the lights.
“No flashing toys. No television near them. Reduce unnecessary sound. We establish predictable feeding and sleeping routines.”
She picked up a stuffed elephant that played music.
It produced a bright electronic melody.
She switched it off.
Simon watched.
“You’re removing everything.”
“I’m removing chaos.”
One twin began fussing.
Simon immediately reached toward the bassinet.
“Wait.”
His hand stopped.
Natasha sat beside the baby.
She tapped three slow beats against the mattress.
The baby’s eyes found her.
Three beats.
Pause.
Three beats.
Simon watched every movement.
“Your turn.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“Do it.”
“I don’t snap.”
“You’re a thirty-eight-year-old man. I’m confident you can learn.”
Teresa turned away to hide a smile.
Simon sat.
His first attempt was too fast.
“Slower.”
He tried again.
“Too aggressive.”
“I’m snapping my fingers.”
“You’re threatening your fingers.”
Teresa coughed.
Simon shot her a look.
Natasha demonstrated.
“Soft. Predictable.”
Simon copied her.
Three beats.
The infant quieted.
Simon froze.
“Again,” Natasha whispered.
He repeated it.
The baby’s tiny fingers wrapped around Simon’s index finger.
Something changed in Simon’s face.
For several seconds, the feared head of the Gambino organization looked like nothing more than a father terrified of failing his child.
Then a phone rang.
His expression disappeared.
Simon stood.
“Stay here.”
“That sounded suspiciously like an order.”
“It was.”
He left.
Natasha looked at Teresa.
“Does he always talk like that?”
“Yes.”
“Does anyone ever tell him no?”
Teresa smiled.
“Not twice.”
Natasha glanced toward the doorway.
“Good thing I’m stubborn.”
“You’ll need to be.”
Three days passed.
Then five.
Then ten.
The twins improved.
Natasha introduced simple rhythms before feeding. Soft piano sessions in the afternoon. Reduced stimulation before sleep.
Simon attended nearly every session he could.
He never admitted he enjoyed them.
He simply appeared.
On the eleventh night, Natasha found him sitting beside the piano after midnight.
“You’re home early.”
“It’s one in the morning.”
“Exactly.”
Simon looked toward her.
“Play something.”
“I’m off duty.”
“I’m paying you a quarter million dollars.”
“For childcare. Private concerts cost extra.”
That almost-smile appeared again.
“Fine. Invoice me.”
Natasha sat at the piano.
Her fingers hovered above the keys.
Then stopped.
Simon noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You haven’t played once since you arrived.”
“I play for the twins.”
“You tap rhythms.”
“That counts.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Natasha stood.
“Goodnight.”
Simon’s voice stopped her.
“Who died?”
She froze.
He had found the wound without knowing where to look.
Natasha turned slowly.
“What?”
“You were a therapist. Now you’re a waitress. You asked for a piano, but you won’t play it.”
His eyes remained on hers.
“Someone died.”
Natasha’s jaw tightened.
“A little girl.”
Simon said nothing.
“Seven years old. Leukemia. Her name was Lily.”
She looked at the keys.
“She coded during one of our sessions. I was holding her hand.”
“You couldn’t have stopped that.”
“I know.”
“But you quit anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because knowing something isn’t your fault doesn’t mean you want to relive it every day.”
Simon looked toward the nursery.
“My wife was named Claire.”
Natasha glanced at him.
“She overdosed while I was downstairs.”
His voice was almost emotionless.
“I spent months thinking I should have known.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then maybe we’re both very good at blaming ourselves for things we couldn’t control.”
Their eyes met.
For the first time, neither looked away.
Then the private elevator chimed.
Simon stood instantly.
His entire body changed.
A guard hurried into the room.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We caught someone downstairs.”
“Who?”
“He had photographs.”
Simon’s face hardened.
“Photographs of what?”
The guard looked at Natasha.
May you like
“Her.”
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