Chapter 2 - The Hush in 2A
“Yes,” I said, the word barely louder than the hum of the jet engines. “I can.”
The mountain of a bodyguard stepped forward, one hand twitching toward the lapel of his tailored jacket. “Don Matteo, you cannot let an unscreened passenger touch the child.”
The man in seat 2A—Matteo—never broke eye contact with me. Up close, I could see the dark circles etched beneath his steel-gray eyes, the slight tremble in his large, scarred hands, and the unmistakable, suffocating aura of a man pushed to the absolute edge of despair.
“Lorenzo, sit down,” Matteo commanded. The tone was soft, but it carried the chilling finality of a gavel striking stone.
The bodyguard hesitated, bowed his head, and backed into the galley.
Matteo stood. He towered over me, broad-shouldered and imposing, carrying the frantic three-month-old as if he were holding unexploded ordnance. He unclipped the privacy partition between seats 2A and 2B, pulling the dark silk curtain across the aisle to block the staring passengers.
“Take him,” Matteo said, his voice raw.
I reached out. The moment my hands slid beneath the infant’s damp, swaddled shoulders, my clinical training overtook the lingering panic of my past. I supported his bobbing head against my collarbone, unbuttoning the top of my blouse with one hand while using my forearm to shield the baby’s view from the harsh cabin lights.
“Shh, little one. I have you,” I whispered, pressing him skin-to-skin against my chest.
The boy arched his back, letting out one last shuddering wail, his tiny fist clutching the fabric of my shirt. Then, his cheek brushed against my warm skin. He caught the scent of milk.
His mouth found the latch.
The transition was instantaneous. The agonizing screams cut off, replaced by rapid, desperate gulps and tiny, sniffling breaths against my collarbone.
Across from me, Matteo sank back into his leather recliner. He covered his face with both hands, his broad shoulders dropping as if a crushing physical weight had been lifted off him. For two full minutes, the only sound in the private suite was the rhythmic, swallow-breathe cadence of his son.
When Matteo finally lowered his hands, his eyes were bloodshot.
“His mother died during the delivery twelve weeks ago,” Matteo murmured, his gaze locked onto the baby’s small hand resting peacefully against my chest. “He has refused every wet nurse in Sicily. Every formula brand in Milan. I brought him to New York to see the top pediatric gastroenterologists, and they told me it was psychosomatic grief. An infant grieving a ghost.”
He looked up at me, studying the dark circles under my eyes, the cheap cotton of my blouse, and the lingering tension in my posture.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Clara. Clara Vance.”
“Who is traveling with you, Clara?”
“My daughter, Maya. She’s asleep in row twenty-four.”
May you like
Matteo touched the call button above his head. The head purser appeared immediately, nervous and deferential.
“Move the child in seat 24B to suite 1A,” Matteo ordered without looking back. “Bring all their luggage to the forward compartment. Mrs. Vance and her daughter are my personal guests for the remainder of this flight.”
