Michael POV:
Two years.
Seven hundred and thirty days of breathing ash.
My name was Martin now.
I worked the docks in Red Hook, loading crates that used to belong to me. Or men like me. I hauled illegal shipments for the Russians, keeping my head down, the brim of my cap pulled low enough to hide my eyes.
The whiskey helped. It was cheap, burning rotgut that cauterized the edges of the nightmare.
Every night, I saw him. The son I never met. I imagined him with Liv's eyes and my chin. I imagined him running toward me. And then I imagined him fading away, washed out by a tide of red wine.
I lived in a basement apartment that smelled of mold and regret. I had no phone. No connections. The Hayes family had done a thorough job. I was a ghost.
I finished my shift, my muscles screaming, and trudged to the local dive bar. The bartender, a guy named Sal, slid a beer toward me without asking.
"You look like shit, Martin," he said.
"I feel like shit," I grunted, taking the bottle.
The TV in the corner was playing the news. Some celebrity scandal. White noise. I ignored it.
Then, a face flashed on the screen.
I froze. The bottle stopped halfway to my mouth.
It was Serena.
She was being led out of a courthouse in handcuffs. The headline screamed in bold red letters: Socialite Arrested for Fraud and Extortion.
"Turn that up," I said. My voice was rusty, like a machine that hadn't been used in years.
Sal frowned but turned the volume knob.
"...Serena Cole, disgraced niece of the New York crime family, was arrested today for attempting to extort a wealthy businessman using a fake paternity claim. Police discovered that the child she claimed was his was actually rented from a desperate family in the Bronx..."
Rented.
The word echoed in my skull like a gunshot.
She had tried the same thing with someone else. She had run the exact same play.
I stared at her face on the screen. She looked haggard. Desperate. A cornered animal.
A memory hit me like a physical blow. The night of the gala. Serena whispering in my ear as I led her away. I'm late, Michael. I think I'm pregnant.
That was why I had panicked. That was why I had tried to keep the peace, why I had been distracted. I thought she was carrying my child, too. I was trying to manage a disaster on two fronts.
But she was a liar. A professional liar.
If she lied about that... what else was a lie?
I drank the beer in one gulp. The alcohol didn't numb me this time. It woke me up.
I needed to know.
I left the bar, leaving a crumpled bill on the counter, and walked to a payphone on the corner. I had one number memorized. A number that shouldn't exist anymore.
I dialed.
It rang for a long time. I almost hung up.
"Hello?" A cautious voice. Richard.
"It's me," I said.
Silence. Heavy and terrified. Then, a hiss. "You shouldn't be calling, Mike. If Hayes finds out..."
"I don't care about Hayes," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "I need to know about Serena."
"She's done, Mike. Burnt. The feds have everything."
"And Liv?" I asked. The name tasted like blood and ash in my mouth.
Richard hesitated.
"Where is she, Richard?"
"She's gone, Mike. Europe. Italy, I think. She vanished after... after the loss."
"Is she alone?"
"I don't know. The Hayes family keeps her locked down tight."
I hung up the phone.
Italy.
A strange feeling stirred in my gut. Not hope. I didn't deserve hope. But suspicion. Cold, sharp suspicion.
Liv had "lost" the baby the night of the gala. The timing was perfect. Too perfect. Elizabeth Hayes was a shark. She knew how to strike where it hurt. She knew how to cut ties.
What if...
The thought was insane. It was impossible.
But it was the only thing that made my heart beat again.
What if my son wasn't dead?
What if Liv had hidden him to protect him from me? From the failure I was? Or what if Elizabeth had stolen him to protect him from my name?
I looked at my hands. They were calloused, scarred, dirty. These weren't the hands of a Don anymore. They were the hands of a laborer. A nobody.
But they were still strong.
I walked back to my apartment. I pulled up the loose floorboard under my bed. There was a stash of cash there. Tips. Side jobs. Blood money I hadn't spent. Not much, but enough for a ticket.
I packed my single bag.
I wasn't Michael Thorne, the King of Chicago. I was Martin, the ghost.
And ghosts can go anywhere.
I was going to Italy. I was going to find her.
And if my son was alive... I would spend the rest of my miserable life making sure no one, not even me, ever hurt him again.
