Three
Matteo
M y phone’s ringing. I hear it, but I don’t see it.
Where the hell is it?
With the baby in my arms, I tear through the disaster—diapers which I hope are clean, takeout containers, junk mail, half-read magazines—digging like a lunatic through what used to be my living room and is now a war zone.
Amelia cried half the night and only calmed when I let her sleep on my chest. Her skin is warm against my chest, her tiny back rising with each hiccup.
Wisps of pale blonde hair curl behind her ears, and her lashes are ridiculously long for someone who doesn’t seem to crawl.
The sun’s up, but I’ve lost all sense of time.
The ringing stops. Thank God.
They’ll leave a message. I’ll call them back once I figure out what she needs. But then, like some cruel joke, it starts again.
Fuck.
I finally find the phone buried under a baby blanket and swipe to answer, just as Amelia starts fussing again.
“Where are you?” Luca barks.
Amelia’s face turns beet red, her tiny mouth unleashing a full-volume scream that sounds like it could shatter glass. I squeeze my eyes shut. Am I praying? Trying not to scream? Honestly, I have no idea anymore.
“As long as I’m lying flat and she’s curled up on me, she’s calm,” I grit out. “Anything else, and it’s meltdown city.”
“What the hell is going on?” Luca demands.
“It’s complicated. I’m here. With my daughter. And life is…chaos.”
“Your daughter?” he shrieks.
“I don’t have time to explain,” I snap, panic rising as Amelia’s cries pitch higher. Her whole body’s shaking. Can babies cry themselves unconscious? Is that a thing?
“I have to go.” I hang up and head to the kitchen, praying the formula Willow left behind will work to get her to stop crying.
Willow.
The name hits like a fist to the chest. Rage flares again.
She left our eight-month-old daughter with the doorman and a goddamn note.
Who does that?
I’ve read the letter so many times I could quote it by heart.
Dear Matteo,
Since we’ve never exchanged information, I was forced to leave you with your daughter, Amelia. I can no longer manage her on my own.
You’re the only person I was with, so I know she’s yours. Do a paternity test if you want. Her birth certificate is included. You’re listed.
She sleeps during the day and needs breast milk or formula. She eats small finger food. I’ve left diapers, clothes, and what formula I had.
She sleeps best on my chest. Her favorite toy is the stuffed elephant.
I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. I’ve included a photo of myself, so she’ll know who I was.
Let her know I loved her too much to keep her.
–Willow
I’ve stared at the photo.
I don’t remember her.
Not really. Not clearly. A night? A face? Maybe. But that doesn’t make this—her—any less real.
The diaper box is already empty, and I’m nearly out of formula. I ordered more to be delivered, but I still can’t figure out how to put a diaper on without turning her into a burrito. And how can someone so small produce something so…toxic? The smell alone should be classified as a biohazard.
I dump a scoop of formula into a bottle, add water, shake it, and hand it over.
“Here you go, sweet pea.”
She takes one sip, scowls, and chucks it with terrifying force. It bounces off the floor, hits the table, and rolls under the couch. Then she wails—full-body, soul-rattling, banshee scream.
Not hungry? Wrong formula? Too cold? Too warm? Too everything?
I have no idea what I’m doing.
I sink onto the couch, clutching her to my chest as she sobs against me, red-faced and trembling.
I stare into nothing.
My arms ache. My brain is fried. My body feels like it’s running on fumes and fear. The weight of her, the scent of her skin— It’s all too much and not enough at once.
I’m drowning. And there’s no life raft in sight.
I really, really can’t.
I’m so fucking tired.
She must miss her mom.
I remember when our parents died. I still miss them every damn day. Amelia might be too young to understand what she’s lost, but she feels it. I know she does.
I shift her so she’s resting against my chest, her back to my stomach, and I start walking the condo, back and forth like a zombie with a baby.
Nothing works. She’s wailing like her world’s ending, and honestly, mine kind of is too.
I’m seconds from parking her in the stroller and rolling her into the guest room just so I can breathe.
My head is pounding.
Then the front door bursts open, and Aunt Rebecca charges in like she’s storming a castle. Her energy hits like fresh oxygen in a smoke-filled room. She moves with purpose, not panic, and for the first time since this all started, I think we might survive the day.
“Luca called,” she announces. “Said you’ve got a screaming baby, and she’s yours?”
Before I can respond, she scoops Amelia out of my arms like a pro and cradles her like a football.
“I know, sweetheart. I’m not your mama,” she murmurs. “What’s your name?”
“Amelia.”
Amelia clings to her. Still sniffling, still red-faced, but calmer. Less possessed.
“I think she’s hungry,” I say, holding up the bottle I made.
Rebecca eyes it like it’s a ticking bomb. “What is this?”
“Formula,” I say, shrugging like it’s obvious.
She lifts the bottle, squints through the cloudy liquid, and shoots me a look that could strip paint. “Where’s the container?”
I hand it over.
“I followed the directions,” I add quickly. “One scoop with water.”
She reads the label. “One scoop per four ounces. This bottle’s twelve. You were supposed to use three.”
“Oh.” That…makes sense. “I was distracted. The doorman called, said I needed to get home immediately. I thought there was a burst pipe or something. Instead, there was a baby in a stroller. My baby.”
She sighs. “The water’s cold, too. If she was breastfed, she’s probably used to it warm.”
Rebecca heads to the kitchen, makes a new bottle, tests it on her wrist, then offers it to Amelia.
She latches instantly. Drinks it like I’ve starved her and I guess I have. Her eyes flutter closed.
Peace.
Then, as if summoned, my three brothers and little sister show up, arms loaded with takeout containers. Of course. Not to help. Just to gawk.
Rebecca turns to them. “Meet your niece. Amelia.”
They crowd around, oohing and aahing over her golden fuzz of hair and piercing blue eyes. We all agree she’s beautiful. Rebecca swears she looks just like Mom did as a baby.
Dante lifts her and makes a goofy face. Amelia giggles.
It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.
Then he starts bouncing her.
“Unless you want to wear puke, stop,” Rebecca warns.
Too late.
Amelia’s diaper slips, cool air hits her skin, and she lets it rip, soaking Dante’s shirt in one brutal, mustard-colored stream. A wet, fart-splattered diaper and a blast of ammonia hit Dante square in the chest. He recoils, gagging, while Amelia cackles like she planned the whole thing.
He holds her out like she’s radioactive. Ciro nearly doubles over laughing.
Then she farts. Loud.
“Oh my God,” Dante groans. “She’s a stink bomb.”
Luca snorts. “Yep. Definitely your kid.”
Rebecca plucks Amelia from Dante’s arms and gives me a pitying look. “Time for a diaper lesson. These are disposable, Matteo. Not rocket science.”
And just like that, my ego takes another hit. Can’t feed her. Can’t clothe her. Can’t even diaper her. How is it that an eight-month-old can make me feel like a complete failure?
Once Amelia’s cleaned and dressed, Rebecca carries her into the guest room to lie down.
Part of me wants to follow.
The other part wants to bolt.
I didn’t sign up for this. I used condoms for a reason. I planned not to be this guy.
“Who the hell is Willow?” Ciro asks.
“She left a photo.” I hand it over. Thin. Pale. Dark blonde hair. Blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
“She’s totally your type,” Luca mutters, squinting at it.
“You need to get a DNA test,” Ciro says. “Her eyes are blue. Yours are brown.”
“Your mom had blue eyes. Recessive gene,” Rebecca calls from the guest room. “Totally possible.”
Meanwhile, Dante’s already on the phone with our family lawyer. “Find Willow Jackson,” he says. “Now.”
Wait—what?
I blink. “How do you know her last name?”
He holds up a piece of paper. “It’s on the birth certificate.”
I haven’t even looked at it.
Luca stares at the document, his voice suddenly quiet. “Her birthday’s the same day as Mom’s.”
The room stills.
We all look at each other, but no one says a word. The weight of it presses down like gravity.
I drag a hand through my hair and sink onto the couch.
I haven’t showered. There’s dried puke in my hair. She peed on my shorts yesterday, and I haven’t even changed. Hygiene’s gone out the window. Survival mode is all I’ve got left.
And somehow…I’ve got to figure out how to be someone’s father.
Gianna settles beside me on the couch and slings an arm around my shoulders. “We’ll get through this,” she says quietly. “Together.”
While Amelia’s momentarily content in someone else’s arms, I slip away to the bathroom.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
What the hell am I doing?
Dark circles hang under my eyes like bruises. My normally olive skin looks sallow, washed out. I look like I’ve been hit by a truck, and honestly, I feel worse. I never planned on being a dad. Never even considered it. And yet here I am, shell-shocked and sleepless, with a baby who needs me.
How does someone carry a child for nine months, bring her into the world…and then just walk away?
I press my hands to the counter and breathe. Sleep. I need sleep before I can begin to make sense of any of this.
“Go lay down,” Rebecca demands.
I don’t need to be told twice. I head to my room, push everything aside, and set an alarm for two hours.
I don’t even think I was awake when my head hit the pillow because suddenly the alarm is sounding. At first, I think my brothers are playing a cruel joke on me, but really, they aren’t. I take a shower while I can and walk out to my living room.