Chapter 3 - The Dead Baby Who CriedThe first thing Marcus did was have the nursery unlocked.
No one had entered it since Valentina died.
The room had been prepared in soft blues and ivory, with a carved wooden crib imported from Florence and tiny clothes folded in drawers by a mother who never got to use them. Valentina had chosen everything herself. She had refused designers. Refused Isabella’s suggestions. Refused Marcus’s offer to buy an entire children’s boutique and be done with it.
“This child will not be raised by invoices,” she had told him, laughing.
Marcus had smiled then.
He had not known memory could become a weapon.
Now the nursery smelled faintly of lavender and unopened grief.
Dr. Levin placed the newborn in the crib only after warming him, feeding him, and checking him twice. Marisol stood nearby, waiting for orders. Lucia hovered at the threshold, unsure whether she was allowed to enter.
Marcus looked at her.
“You can come in.”
Lucia stepped carefully onto the rug, as if the nursery were holy.
The baby had stopped crying. He slept with one fist near his cheek, his mouth moving slightly in dreams too new to have words.
Marcus stood over the crib.
His face revealed nothing, but inside him, something ancient and brutal was breaking apart.
“Valentina wanted to name him Matteo,” he said.
No one responded.
Marcus had not intended to speak.
The name had escaped him.
Lucia looked at the baby.
“Matteo,” she repeated softly.
The newborn stirred.
Marisol’s eyes filled with tears.
Isabella had been escorted to the west sitting room under guard. She had not been restrained. Marcus did not want chains on her. Chains made guilt simple. He wanted truth before punishment.
Renato entered the nursery with a phone in his hand.
“St. Agnes is refusing to release records without a formal request,” he said.
Marcus did not look away from the crib.
“Who answered?”
“Administrative night supervisor.”
“Name?”
“Gail Rourke.”
Marcus turned.
His expression made Renato lower the phone slightly.
“Gail Rourke signed the witness line on Valentina’s infant death certificate.”
Renato’s silence confirmed he had noticed the same thing.
“Call her again,” Marcus said. “Tell her if she does not send every record attached to Valentina Falcone tonight, I will arrive at St. Agnes with reporters, lawyers, police, and every grieving mother whose bill they buried.”
Renato nodded and left.
Lucia tugged lightly at Marisol’s sleeve.
“Mama,” she whispered. “Can I say something?”
Marisol looked terrified.
“Not now.”
Marcus heard.
“Yes. Now.”
Lucia swallowed.
“When I found him, he had something in his blanket.”
Marcus became completely still.
“What?”
“I forgot because everyone was shouting.” She looked ashamed. “It fell when I picked him up. I put it in my sweater pocket.”
She reached into the oversized sweater beneath Marcus’s jacket and pulled out a small object wrapped in wet tissue.
Marisol gasped.
“Lucia Reyes, why did you not tell me?”
“I was scared they would throw it away.”
Marcus held out his hand.
Lucia placed the object in his palm.
It was a tiny silver religious medal.
Saint Michael.
Protector in battle.
Marcus knew it instantly. Not because it was expensive. It was not. The medal was worn at the edges, its chain broken.
Valentina had worn it during her pregnancy.
She said Marcus needed all the protection he could get, but the baby needed more.
Marcus closed his fist around the medal.
For the first time that night, rage showed on his face.
Not loud rage.
Worse.
Rage with a destination.
“She had this at the hospital,” he said.
Marisol crossed herself.
Dr. Levin looked down.
Lucia whispered, “Was it his mother’s?”
Marcus nodded once.
“Then she put it with him,” Lucia said.
Marcus looked at her.
“How do you know?”
“Because it was tucked inside the blanket. Not dropped. Like someone wanted him to keep it.”
Marcus opened his hand again and looked at the medal.
Valentina had known.
Or someone loyal to Valentina had.
The nursery door opened.
Renato returned, his face grave.
“Gail Rourke sent partial files.”
“Partial?”
“She claims the archive is locked until morning.”
“She lies.”
“Yes.”
Marcus took the phone.
On the screen was a scanned record.
Valentina Falcone. Cesarean delivery. Male infant. Time of birth: 2:14 a.m.
Condition: weak respiratory response. Resuscitation initiated.
Second page.
Transferred to neonatal observation.
Third page.
Marcus read the line three times.
Infant declared deceased at 3:06 a.m. by Dr. Adrian Whitmore.
But below it, in a different font, another note appeared faintly as if copied from an original file:
Infant breathing unassisted at 3:22 a.m. Nurse present: Amara Velez.
Marcus looked at Renato.
“Find Amara Velez.”
“Already trying.”
Dr. Levin stepped closer.
“If that note is real, the death declaration was false.”
Marcus’s mouth hardened.
The nursery lights flickered briefly as thunder rolled outside.
Then a guard appeared at the door.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“Miss Cross is asking to speak with you. She says she has information about the baby’s father.”
The nursery went silent.
Marcus did not move.
Dr. Levin looked sharply at him.
Marisol held Lucia close.
The baby slept.
May you like
Marcus slowly turned from the crib.
“Tell her,” he said, “that if she speaks one more lie in my house tonight, she should make it beautiful enough to be remembered.”
Related Stories
