Chapter 7 IZZY
IZZY
Ikeep waiting for the catch.
That’s the problem with miracles when your life has trained you to expect scams. Even after Donald shoves the envelope into my hands, even after I duck into the staff bathroom and count it twice with shaking fingers, some part of me is still convinced the universe is winding up for a punchline.
But no.
The money is real.
All of it.
My missing overtime, plus more. A lot more. Enough that my knees nearly give out when I realize I can pay the daycare what I owe, catch up on a couple of smaller bills, and maybe even breathe for half a second without hearing the Jaws theme in the back of my head every time my phone buzzes.
Donald, meanwhile, looked like he’d just seen the devil.
Every time I questioned him, his eyes kept darting toward the lounge like he expected someone there to materialize and finish the job if he said the wrong thing.
He kept muttering about accounting errors and corrected paperwork and “hazard compensation,” which is not a phrase that has ever in history come naturally out of Donald Bernardi’s mouth.
Something happened.
I don’t know what.
I do know Donald does not suddenly grow a conscience in the span of ten minutes, so whatever lit a fire under his ass was external and probably expensive.
I also know that every time I tried to follow his terrified little glances, Niccolò Neri was at the end of them.
Which means I should definitely not think about it too hard.
And yet.
By the end of the shift, my feet are throbbing, my back hurts, and I’ve spent the last hour smiling at customers while my brain quietly built conspiracy boards out of Donald’s panic and a folded white handkerchief still tucked in my apron pocket.
But under all of that, beneath the exhaustion and the confusion and the low-grade existential scream that is my natural resting state, there is relief.
Deep, glorious relief.
Tomorrow, I can pay daycare. Hell, I can take Noah for ice cream and not have a panic attack about it after. I am already halfway into that fantasy when I finally check my phone.
And the world drops out from under me.
Seventeen missed calls.
Nine texts.
All from Gabby.
For a second I just stare at the screen, not understanding what I’m looking at. My mind is still in bill-paying mode, still doing soothing little mental math with the money in my bag.
Then I open the messages.
hey i’m rly not feeling good
sry i cant
i texted u
izzy???
i literally cant make it
i’m sick
plz answer
not my fault if u dont pick up
Something cold and immediate grips the base of my spine.
I stop walking.
No.
No no no.
I hit call so fast I almost drop the phone. It rings once, twice, then Gabby picks up.
There is loud music in the background. Bass thudding so hard I can hear it through the speaker. People shouting. Laughing.
Club music.
She’s not home in bed with a fever. She’s at a fucking club.
“Gabby,” I snap. “Where are you?”
She giggles. Actually giggles.
“I told you I couldn’t make it, boss!”
My mouth goes dry. “What are you talking about?”
“I texted you,” she slurs. “Like, a bunch.”
God, she’s so wasted. “You were supposed to pick up Noah.”
There’s a pause. Then, with all the lazy, drunken confidence of someone too stupid to understand the size of the crater she has just dropped into my life, she says, “I called in sick.”
I can’t breathe properly.
“You what?”
“I called in sick,” she repeats, as if this is normal. “Not my fault you didn’t answer.”
The hallway around me blurs.
Noah.
If Gabby never picked him up—
If she never went—
Then where is he?
“Gabby,” I say, my voice shaking now. “Did you pick up my son from daycare or not?”
Another pause.
Then, annoyed, “No? I literally just said I didn’t go.”
Something inside me snaps clean in half.
I hang up.
For one frozen second I stand there in the middle of the restaurant corridor with my phone in my hand and my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Noah was never picked up.
He was never picked up.
Oh my God.
I start moving before I know where I’m going. Towards the door, I guess. Towards outside. Towards air. My thoughts are coming too fast now, slamming into each other.
Maybe daycare called.
Maybe they still have him.
Maybe—
What if they closed?
What if he’s alone?
What if he got scared?
What if someone—
I hit something solid.
Or someone.
A firm chest.
Strong hands close around my upper arms before I can stumble backward.
“Easy.”
That voice.
Deep. Controlled. Calm in a way that should be illegal when my insides are actively on fire.
I look up.
Niccolò Neri.
Of course, it’s him.
Because apparently the universe has decided this is the night every fragile piece of my life gets yanked into the light at once.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though I am very obviously not fine and have perhaps never been fine a day in my life.
“You are not fine,” he says.
“I need to go.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes lock on mine, and his voice drops lower.
“Izzy.”
God.
That voice.
I hate that it still does things to me. I hate that in the middle of panic, in the middle of what might be the worst moment of my life, some stupid part of me still hears him and remembers.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
It isn’t a demand, not in the obvious sense. But there is quiet authority in it, the kind that expects obedience because it has rarely been denied.
And maybe I’m too panicked to fight properly, or maybe some part of me has always been too weak where he’s concerned, because the words come out before I can stop them.
“It’s my son.”
His expression changes. “What about him?”
“He was supposed to be with the sitter tonight,” I say, the words tumbling over each other now. “She was supposed to pick him up from daycare after school, and I—I didn’t see my phone because I was on the floor and now she says she never went and I don’t know where he is.”
For a second the world goes very quiet.
Nico’s hands loosen on my arms, not letting me go but grounding me.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do.
“Breathe.”
I try. It comes out shaky and uneven.
He waits.
I hate how much that helps.
“What is your boy’s name?” he asks.
I swallow hard.
“Noah.”
For the smallest fraction of a second, something flickers across his face. Something I don’t understand and too terrified to examine. It’s gone before I have time to dwell on it.
He turns his head slightly.
“Leone.”
His second appears almost immediately, like he was never more than a few feet away. Which, in hindsight, he probably wasn’t. Men like Niccolò Neri do not exactly move around unattended.
“Ready the car,” Nico says.
Leone doesn’t ask questions. “Yes, boss.”
He’s gone in the next breath.
I blink up at Nico.
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m doing it anyway.”
My throat tightens.
I should refuse.
I should say no, thank you, I can handle it, because that is what I always say and because letting Niccolò Neri any closer to my life is the kind of decision that ends badly in every known universe.
But Noah is out there somewhere.
Noah comes first.
Always.
So instead of arguing, I nod once, because that is all I can trust myself to do without breaking.
Neri releases my arms, but only to guide me toward the door with one hand at my back. Like panic is a thing he can simply walk me through by force of will.
I let him.
Because my son is missing.
And right now the only thing keeping me from coming apart is the sound of that voice beside me and the terrible, dangerous relief of not being alone for once.