PART 2
Natasha Reynolds didn't sleep that night.
Not because Simon Gambino's penthouse was uncomfortable.
It was impossible to call an entire apartment above Manhattan uncomfortable, with floor-to-ceiling windows, dark wood floors, Italian art on the walls, and a guest room larger than her entire old apartment.
He didn't sleep because every sound in the place seemed to have an owner.
A private elevator that opened with a metallic sigh.
Guards walking through invisible corridors.
Male voices speaking Italian behind closed doors.
A telephone that rang once and then fell silent, as if even the calls understood that they had to ask permission to exist.
And, at the end of the corridor, two babies were breathing with difficulty in their sleep.
The twins were named Luca and Matteo.
Simon told her as he walked in, without ceremony, while a terrified nanny was collecting baby bottles from a side table.
—Luca hates being picked up quickly.
—Matteo stops breathing when he cries too much.
—Both tremble more after midnight.
Natasha heard every word.
He didn't take notes because he never took notes when it came to children.
Children needed present eyes, not busy pencils.
"Who usually takes care of them?" he asked.
Simon looked towards the baby room.
—Who lasts.
That answer told him more than a list of names.
The babies had not had a routine.
They had taken turns.
Changing hands.
Nervous voices.
Women hired out of fear and fired for failing.
Natasha approached the twin cribs.
Luca was sleeping with a closed fist next to his cheek.
Matteo moved his lips as if he were looking for something lost.
Both had that particular fragility of babies who came into the world with a battle already underway.
"They need the opposite of this house," she said.
Simon turned around slowly.
-Sorry?
Natasha swallowed, but did not back down.
—This house is too quiet and too tense.
He pointed to the recessed ceiling lights.
—Too bright at certain times, too cold at others, too unpredictable in small sounds.
One of the guards looked at her as if she had just insulted a temple.
Simon didn't take his eyes off her.
—Continue.
—They need the same voice, the same sequence, the same music, the same movements before going to sleep.
He took a deep breath.
—And they need you to stop entering the room as if you were expecting an ambush.
One of the men behind Simon coughed.
Simon no.
He just raised an eyebrow.
—Do I get in like this?
-Yeah.
—And does that affect them?
—They're babies, not furniture.
Natasha felt she had gone too far.
But Simon Gambino looked at his sons with an expression that was not anger.
It was fear.
A huge, clumsy fear, disguised as control.
—Then teach me.
He didn't say "teach them".
He said, “Teach me.”
And that difference made Natasha accept, even though she still didn't know if she was saving a life or giving up her own.
The first week was a war against chaos.
Natasha changed the lights in the nursery for warm lamps.
She brought out the noisy toys, the rough blankets, and the electronic mobiles that sang horrible melodies every seven minutes.
She asked for a large rocking chair.
An upright piano.
Blackout curtains.
Lavender oil without strong perfume.
A visible feeding schedule.
And, to the horror of the household, he forbade any armed man from entering the baby room wearing hard shoes.
"I'm not taking off my shoes," said a guard named Enzo.
Natasha looked at him.
—Then you won't see the babies.
Enzo looked at Simon.
Simon looked at Enzo.
Enzo took off his shoes.
From that day on, all staff began leaving shoes outside the nursery as if entering a chapel.
Simon observed more than he spoke.
At first, Natasha thought he was evaluating her.
Later he realized that he was memorizing.
How she held Luca against her chest, not too tight, not too loose.
How he tapped three beats with his fingers on the blanket.
How she hummed low notes to Matteo when her breathing started to become irregular.
Why didn't I say "okay, okay" when they cried, because babies didn't need their pain to be extinguished for the sake of adult convenience.
They needed someone to stay until the body remembered how to get back.
On the fourth night, Matteo had a breakdown.
It wasn't the worst Natasha had ever seen, but it was the worst Simon had ever witnessed firsthand.
The baby stiffened, his eyes were disoriented, his legs trembled violently.
The nanny screamed.
A guard came running in.
Simon appeared with his shirt unbuttoned and his face white.
Natasha raised a hand without looking at him.
—Everyone out.
Nobody moved.
-Out!
Simon gestured.
The room emptied.
He was the only one left.
Natasha held Matteo against her chest and began the pattern.
Three gentle taps on the back.
A pause.
Three knocks.
A serious note.
Another pause.
The tremor did not stop immediately.
Simon took a step.
—Do something.
—I'm doing something.
-Not working.
—It doesn't work any faster because you're afraid.
That stopped him.
Matteo groaned.
Natasha cradled him with a minimal, constant, almost hypnotic movement.
Then he looked at Simon.
—Sit down.
-No.
—Sit on the floor.
Simon Gambino, the man before whom judges stood and politicians lowered their gaze, looked at her as if he did not understand the language.
-That?
—Your children are learning if the world is safe by looking at your body.
Natasha pointed to the carpet.
—Right now you look like an earthquake in a suit.
For a second, she thought he would kick her out.
Or I would make it disappear.
Simon, on the other hand, sat on the floor.
Slowly.
Clumsy.
Furious with himself.
Natasha handed it over to Luca, who was beginning to get worried about his brother's tension.
—Hand under head.
-I know.
—No, he doesn't know. His shoulder is too high.
Simon adjusted his arm.
Luca let out a small sound and settled down.
Simon's jaw trembled slightly.
Natasha pretended not to see him.
Not because it didn't matter.
Because some men break if you look at the crack too soon.
Twenty minutes later, Matteo was asleep.
Luca too.
Simon sat on the floor, holding his son in his arms, staring at the tiny face as if he had just discovered a religion for which no one had prepared him.
"Her mother didn't die of an overdose," he said then.
Natasha remained motionless.
The phrase shouldn't have belonged in that room.
Not next to two sleeping babies.
—You don't have to tell me that.
-Yeah.
Her voice was low.
-Yes I have.
Natasha did not speak.
Simon stroked Luca's blanket with a finger.
—Her name was Isabella. She wasn't my wife.
He paused.
—But she was the mother of my children.
Natasha waited.
—Everyone says overdose because that's easier.
—What really happened?
Simon looked up.
They contained anger, but also something older.
Blame.
—Someone gave him the dose.
Natasha felt cold.
-Who?
—That's what I'm going to find out.
—And why are you telling me this?
Simon looked at the babies.
—Because since you came into my life, they've been asleep.
His voice became raspy.
—And that means that if someone wants to hurt me now, they'll try to hurt you too.
Natasha felt the air close around her chest.
—I only came for a job.
-I know.
—I am not part of their war.
Simon held her gaze.
—No one chooses to be part of a war. They only find out the day the war already knows their name.
Natasha wanted to resign that same night.
He really wanted to.
But Matteo sighed asleep against her chest.
Luca let out a small moan and Simon calmed him down with three clumsy taps, mimicking the rhythm she had taught him.
One.
Two.
Three.
Too strong at first.
Then better.
The baby calmed down.
And Natasha understood something terrible.
Simon Gambino could be a dangerous man.
But her children were innocent.
And, for some reason that life had decided to turn into both punishment and opportunity, she was the first person capable of giving them peace.
The next morning, he encountered his first threat.
He was not in his room.
Not on your phone.
Not on a dramatic note under the door.
I was at the piano.
On the white keys, someone had left a children's hospital bracelet.
Small.
Plastic.
With a name written in blue ink.
Mia Hart.
Natasha stopped breathing.
Mine.
The girl who died in his arms two years ago.
The girl who made her quit music therapy.
The girl whose mother had hugged her while she repeated "I'm sorry" as if that phrase could change a stopped heart.
Nobody in the attic could know that name.
No one, except someone who had investigated their deepest pain and placed it on a piano as a warning.
Simon entered seconds later.
He saw her face.
Then he saw the bracelet.
The change in him was instantaneous.
The room became colder.
"Who is Mia Hart?" he asked.
Natasha couldn't speak.
Simon took the bracelet with a handkerchief, not with his hand.
—Natasha.
His name, in his mouth, sounded less like an order and more like an anchor.
—She was a patient.
His voice came out cracking.
—He died during a session with me.
Simon didn't ask cruel questions.
He didn't ask if it was his fault.
He didn't ask why I hadn't told anyone.
He only said:
-Frame.
The bodyguard appeared at the door.
—Lock down the attic. No one goes in, no one goes out. Check cameras, elevators, service, kitchen, and staff.
Natasha turned towards him.
—Don't do this in front of the babies.
Simon looked towards the nursery.
Her face changed.
It was a small, almost invisible change.
But he obeyed.
—In my office.
The interrogation lasted six hours.
Not Natasha.
To everyone else.
She stayed in the nursery with the twins, humming until her throat hurt.
As evening fell, Simon returned.
He seemed not to have aged, but to have hardened.
—She was the night nurse.
Natasha closed her eyes.
-Because?
—Because someone paid him.
-Who?
Simon took a while to respond.
—My uncle.
Natasha looked at him.
—Your family?
—The word family is used too much in this house.
The nurse had disappeared before they could stop her.
But the cameras showed that she left the bracelet behind.
It also showed something worse.
He had entered the babies' room two nights before and had stood by the cribs for seventeen seconds.
Without touching them.
Without doing anything visible.
But seventeen seconds were enough for Natasha to feel like the world was tilting towards a precipice.
"You have to take them to the hospital," he said.
—The private doctor already examined them.
—I said hospital.
Simon remained still.
—Hospitals ask questions.
—Then let them do it.
—Natasha.
-No.
This time he didn't raise his voice.
It wasn't necessary.
"If you want me to stay, those babies will have independent medical care, not just doctors who owe you favors."
Simon watched her for several seconds.
—Are you giving me an ultimatum?
-Yeah.
Enzo, from the doorway, seemed to be praying for her soul.
Simon looked at his children.
Then to her.
—Choose the hospital.
Natasha chose one where nobody knew the Gambino surname beyond the headlines.
The babies were examined.
There were no foreign substances in the blood.
There was no new damage.
Just the same old complicated history, the small body trying to learn how to live.
Natasha cried in the hospital bathroom.
Not just out of fear.
For relief.
By Mia.
Because of the twins.
Because of the horrible certainty that she could no longer feign professional distance.
When he came out, Simon was in the hallway, leaning against the wall, with his jacket hanging over his arm and a tired face.
"You haven't eaten," he said.
She let out a bitter laugh.
—Is that your way of asking for forgiveness?
—I don't know how to apologize properly.
—It shows.
He accepted the blow.
-I'm sorry.
Natasha blinked.
I didn't expect to hear those two words from him.
Not like that.
"Not for taking them to the hospital," Simon said. "For making you part of something dangerous without telling you the whole truth."
—You never tell the whole truth.
—I'm trying to get started.
She looked at him.
—Don't start with me if you're only going to do it when it suits you.
Simon lowered his gaze.
-Fair.
That word remained between them.
Fair.
Not pretty.
Not romantic.
Fair.
Days passed and the attic changed again.
This time it's not for lamps or blankets.
By new rules.
The babies had outside doctors.
Natasha had her own phone, her own key, and a contract reviewed by a lawyer who did not work for Simon.
Simon didn't enjoy it.
But he signed.
She also asked for something else.
—I want to pay my medical debts, yes. But I don't want you to do it directly.
Simon frowned.
-Because?
—Because if you pay for everything, my freedom will resemble forced gratitude.
He looked at her for a long second.
—What do you propose?
—A real salary. Clean transfers. Taxes. Schedules. Days off. And if you want to donate to pediatric music therapy programs, do it without my name.
Simon almost smiled.
"You're the first person to negotiate a fortune down for me."
—I'm the first person here who doesn't want to owe him his soul.
The smile disappeared.
—I don't want her.
Natasha held his gaze.
—Make sure your actions reflect that.
From then on, Simon knocked on the door of the nursery.
Always.
Even in their own home.
Natasha noticed it.
He also noticed that he practiced the triplet rhythm when he thought he was alone.
One night he found him in the living room, sitting in front of the piano, clumsily playing three notes.
Do.
My.
Sun.
Pause.
Do.
My.
Sun.
"He's too stiff," she said from the doorway.
Simon was not startled.
Men like him didn't get startled.
But his shoulders slumped a little.
—The piano never obeyed me.
—He's not a soldier.
—That's noticeable too.
Natasha sat down next to him.
Not too close.
—Use less force.
He repeated the notes.
Worse.
She let out a laugh.
Simon looked at her.
—Does my suffering amuse you?
-A bit.
For the first time since he had known him, Simon genuinely smiled.
Not as a threat.
Not as a mask.
As a tired father trying to learn a song for his children.
That smile was dangerous in another way.
Not because I could destroy it.
But because it could make her forget that she needed to take care of herself.
"Mia loved this progression," Natasha said suddenly.
Simon put his hands down on the keys.
—Do you want to tell me?
Natasha looked at the piano.
For two years, the name Mia had been a locked room inside her.
That night he opened a window.
—I was seven years old.
His voice trembled.
—Cerebral palsy. Seizures. A huge laugh.
Simon listened without interrupting.
—The therapy helped her move her right hand. We sang silly songs. Once she told me my voice sounded like hot soup.
Natasha smiled through her tears.
—The day he died, we were working on respiration. Everything seemed normal until it wasn't.
He closed his eyes.
—The doctors said it wasn't my fault. His mother said so too. But my body didn't believe them.
Simon did not touch her hand.
She was grateful that he didn't make a scene with her pain.
—Is that why you worked as a waitress?
—Because tables don't die if you choose the wrong song.
Simon closed his eyes for a moment.
—What a cruel thing to say to yourself.
—Cruelty sounds more convincing when it carries your own voice.
He didn't respond quickly.
"My children aren't alive because of me," she finally said. "They're alive because Isabella had them against all odds and because you walked into a dining room when everyone else froze."
Natasha looked at him.
—You supported them.
—I didn't know how.
—But he didn't let them go.
Simon looked down at the keys.
—Sometimes I worry that that's the only good thing I know how to do.
—Then learn the rest.
He looked at her.
—Just like that?
—No. It's that necessary.
The investigation into Isabella progressed slowly.
Simon's uncle, Vittorio Gambino, had for years run shady businesses behind the family structure.
Isabella discovered hidden accounts, names of judges, payments to doctors, and a fentanyl route that Vittorio had allowed into the territory without Simon's permission.
When she threatened to talk, she died.
The official version was overdose.
The truth was murder.
Natasha found out one early morning, when she found Simon on the terrace with a file in his hands.
"She tried to protect them," he said.
He didn't need to explain who he was talking about.
—To the twins?
—To them. And to me, perhaps.
He looked at the New York skyline.
"I thought Isabella was unstable. Too anxious. Too scared. My men told me she was using again, and I believed them because it was convenient."
Natasha felt a familiar pain.
—They called her an exaggerator until she could no longer defend herself.
Simon nodded.
-Yeah.
—Then don't do the same to me when I tell you something you don't want to hear.
He turned towards her.
-Never.
Natasha held his gaze.
—Don't make big promises on nights of guilt.
Simon took a deep breath.
—Then I'll make a small one.
-Which?
—Next time you say something is wrong, I'll listen before I give an order.
It was a small promise for an ordinary man.
For Simon, it was a revolution.
Vittorio tried to regain control a week later.
He did not attack Simon.
He attacked Natasha.
She was summoned by the children's hospital under the pretense of a false emergency.
The message arrived on his phone while Simon was in a meeting.
Natasha would have run before.
After Mia, any child in danger erased their caution.
But something didn't add up.
The doctor's signature.
The extension number.
The time.
Too clean.
Too urgent.
He remembered the small promise.
He called Simon.
—Something is wrong.
He answered on the second ring.
-Tell me.
He didn't say "are you sure?"
He didn't say "wait".
He didn't say "I'll take care of it" before listening.
She told him.
Simon remained silent for barely five seconds.
—Don't go.
—I wasn't going to go.
-Good.
—But if they want me to come out, maybe we can make them believe I did.
The silence on the other side changed.
—Natasha.
—Listen before you order.
A pause.
Then Simon let out a low laugh.
—That hurt.
They made the plan.
Not with her as physical bait.
That was their limit.
They used her coat, her old bag, and a visible trail of cameras.
Vittorio sent two men to intercept her in a parking lot.
They found federal police officers, not Natasha.
Simon didn't kill them.
That was the part that surprised everyone.
He handed them over with evidence.
Records.
Audios.
Transfers.
The kind of weapons that didn't leave corpses, but condemnations.
Vittorio was arrested three days later.
The news report stated that it involved fraud, conspiracy, trafficking, and a cover-up of murder.
He didn't mention Natasha.
He didn't mention the twins.
He didn't mention Isabella more than necessary.
But Simon did something no one expected.
He asked to publicly reopen Isabella's case and clear her name.
In a brief press conference, with Luca and Matteo away from the cameras, Simon said only one sentence about her:
—The mother of my children was not a family disgrace. She was a woman we didn't listen to in time.
Natasha saw him from the attic.
She didn't cry.
But he had to sit down.
Because some repairs come too late for the dead, but just in time to teach the living.
The following months were calmer.
Not easy.
Relax.
Luca started sleeping for four hours straight.
Matteo stopped trembling every time a door slammed shut.
Simon learned to prepare baby bottles without looking like he was defusing a bomb.
Natasha paid the first part of her medical debts with her own salary.
Simon gave her a small piano.
She almost gave it back.
Then he found the note.
“It’s not payment. It’s a tool. If you don’t want it, you can sell it and call me an idiot.”
He kept it.
He called him an idiot anyway.
One afternoon, while Matteo slept on a blanket and Luca banged wooden blocks against the floor, Simon sat down opposite Natasha in the living room.
—I want to ask you something.
She looked up from the progress report.
—That sounds dangerous.
-It is.
—Then ask slowly.
Simon looked at his children.
Then to her.
—When your contract ends, I want you to stay.
Natasha felt her chest tighten.
—As a therapist.
—If that's what you choose.
—As an employee.
—If that's what you choose.
—Simon.
He looked at her.
—As part of this house, if one day you choose that without feeling like I bought your way here.
Natasha left the report on the table.
—You can't say something like that to me while I'm working for you.
-I know.
—Then don't say it.
—That's why I waited until I told you that I'm going to transfer your contract to an independent clinical foundation.
She blinked.
-That?
—You will lead the program if you accept. Neurological music therapy for children with neonatal trauma, withdrawal, and sensory processing disorders.
Her voice became lower.
—My children will be patient, not make excuses.
Natasha couldn't speak.
—Your salary won't depend on living here. Neither will your housing. Your debts will be paid with your work, not with favors. And if after six months you decide to leave, no one in this family will follow you.
She looked at him for a long time.
—Who taught him to say all that?
-You.
That hurt him more than any seduction.
Because it wasn't a chain.
It was an open door.
"What if I don't stay?" he asked.
Simon swallowed hard.
—So Luca and Matteo must have had someone teach them how to sleep.
He looked towards the piano.
—And I must have had someone who taught me to play a song without using force.
Natasha lowered her gaze.
Love, if that was what was beginning to form, did not arrive like a fire.
He arrived like a dangerous man, learning to back down.
Like babies sleeping without trembling.
Like a piano that no longer reminded him only of Mia's death.
As well as the possibility that his gift was not a curse.
Six months later, the program opened.
Not in the attic.
In a renovated pediatric center in Brooklyn.
The foundation was named after Isabella.
Natasha thought it was fair.
On the first day, a young mother arrived with a baby who cried nonstop.
Natasha sat down opposite her.
He showed him three times.
A pause.
A note.
Another pattern.
The baby took seventeen minutes to calm down.
The mother cried as if someone had given her back her breath.
Natasha felt Mia's ghost nearby.
Not as an accusation.
As a memory.
At the end of the day, Simon showed up with the twins.
He didn't come in to interrupt.
He waited at the door.
He tapped the frame with his knuckles.
-Can?
Natasha smiled.
-Yeah.
Luca took clumsy steps towards her.
Matteo clung to Simon's pants.
They were both bigger.
Stronger.
Still sensitive.
Still fighting.
But alive.
Insurance.
Simon looked at her.
—You were right.
—That's not news.
—About many things.
—Be specific. I like to hear you suffer.
He smiled.
—About not buying peace with money.
Natasha crossed her arms.
-AND?
—About listening before ordering.
-AND?
Simon sighed.
—About my shoes in the nursery.
—That was the most important point.
Matteo let out a giggle.
Simon lifted it with an ease that no longer seemed like panic.
Then he looked at Natasha with a gentle seriousness.
—One thing is missing.
She knew before he said it.
—Simon.
—It's not an order.
—He'd better.
—It's not a fortune offer.
-Good.
—It's not a contract.
-Better.
He breathed.
—It's a question.
Natasha felt her heart pounding in her throat.
Simon Gambino, the most feared man in New York, the don who once swiped a black card as if the whole world could be bought, stood before her with one child in his arms, another clinging to his leg, and his hands empty.
"Can I invite you to dinner?" he asked.
Natasha looked at the twins.
Luca smiling.
Matteo is calm.
To the man who had not ceased to be dangerous, but had begun to be responsible.
"Without bodyguards looking at the menu?" he asked.
Simon grimaced.
-Negotiable.
—No restaurant closed for us?
—That will be more difficult.
—No black card on the table?
Simon remained silent.
Then he took out his wallet, took the black card and gave it to Luca.
The baby bit her immediately.
Natasha burst out laughing.
Simon looked at her as if that laugh was worth more than all his possessions.
"Without a black card," he said.
Natasha breathed a sigh of relief.
She thought of the ruined waitress who crossed a dining room filled with fear because two babies were trembling.
She thought of the therapist who had run away from her own gift.
He thought about Mia.
In Isabella.
In Luca and Matteo.
In all the things that could not be saved, and in those that still could.
—Then yes —he said.
Simon closed his eyes for a moment, as if he had just survived something.
-Good.
—But I choose the place.
-Made.
—And it will be cheap.
—That scares me more than Vittorio.
-Perfect.
That night they had dinner at a small family-run trattoria in Brooklyn where no one moved tables, no one closed doors, and no one knew that the man cutting ravioli for Luca had made New York tremble.
Natasha wore a simple dress.
Simon arrived without a tuxedo.
The twins threw bread on the floor.
Matteo got sauce all over himself.
Luca tried to feed his father with an upside-down spoon.
And Natasha, for the first time in years, didn't feel like her life was a debt waiting to collect interest.
She felt as if she were sitting at a messy, noisy, imperfect, and alive table.
Later, some continued to say that she had appeased the heirs of the mafia and received a fortune.
That was the easy version.
The real version was different.
Natasha Reynolds walked towards two babies when everyone else was afraid.
He gave them rhythm rather than silence.
He gave them presence before discipline.
And, in doing so, he forced the most dangerous man in New York to learn that protecting was not controlling.
That loving wasn't about buying.
That a family is not built with fear, but with hands capable of holding without squeezing.
Simon Gambino offered him money.
Big money.
But Natasha demanded something more expensive.
TRUE.
Boundaries.
I respect.
An independent hospital.
A clean contract.
An open door.
And the freedom to leave if one day the house began to feel like a cage again.
In the end, New York's most feared don did not win the ruined waitress over with a fortune.
She won it by learning not to claim it.
And Natasha, who once believed that her gift could only accompany farewells, discovered that she could also teach the living how to stay.
Three times.
A pause.
A soft note.
That was enough to calm the twins down.
But to replace Simon Gambino, something much more difficult was needed.
A woman who didn't sell out.
Not even when the price seemed high enough to save it.
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