FRIDAY, APRIL 17, THE PRESENT
6:15 AM EDT
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

Nomad flexed his right wrist, and with the palm of his hand, eased the joystick forward. The motor on his wheelchair hummed, and he maneuvered toward the center of the workstation. This environment was his creation. The height set to accommodate his chair with room beneath to manipulate the joystick. With subtle right or left pressure on the stick, he could navigate the full semicircle desk and jump between clients and projects.

There were traditional keyboards and mice, but the layer of fine dust revealed little use. Nomad’s world was one of proprietary speech recognition technology and the pressure-sensitive controls he designed and added to his chair. His forearms, wrists, fingers, head and voice all served as system navigation and command-and-control interfaces.

A matrix of monitors, stacked three high and eight across, spanned the arc of the desk and formed his window on the outside world. As a C6 quadriplegic, what he lost in physical mobility he regained in the virtual world. He chose the name Nomad for the irony, and believed his world offered freedom, control, and safety.

Nomad scanned the monitors. His building’s security cameras, global news feeds, random engineering musings of a few MIT grads on Slack. Another monitor was hammering away on a client’s file with one of his decryption algorithms. No challengers yet on any of his virtual chess boards, and that brought him to the Frenchman, his favorite opponent.

The central monitor was a live, split-screen camera feed from the Frenchman’s Paris apartment. One feed came from the Frenchman’s laptop, and the other from the camera embedded in the smart TV. It was Nomad’s practice to plant malware on the systems of anyone in his inner circle. What began as a safety protocol became something more, and he watched and lived vicariously through his contact’s living rooms and their digital and social media lives.

Nomad glanced at the camera feed’s system clock. Twelve-fifteen. It was almost time. He hoped the apartment would be empty, but saw Francois scurrying about, preparing for the meeting. Nomad knew it was pointless, but he had to try one more time.

Francois’s laptop rang with Nomad’s encrypted call request. He watched the Frenchman approach the laptop and press cancel. Nomad tried again, and this time he watched Francois accept the call.

“I admire your determination,” Francois began, “but there’s nothing left to discuss.”

“Look, I know how it sounds, but I’m begging you to trust me,” Nomad said. “You need to leave.”

“You ask for trust, but hide in the shadows.”

“Who I am is not important. All you need to know is that your life is in danger.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “For one thing, I know who you are, but rest assured, your secret is safe with me. Why you’ve chosen this life, I will never understand, but that is your business and now you must leave me to mine.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, no, my friend. You misunderstand,” Francois said. “This is just a promise that I will keep you out of the discussion, but Moore Industries needs to know what you found. They believe the device is impenetrable, exceeding even the capabilities of quantum computing, and with millions relying on this technology, I have no choice. There is no room for debate.”

“You’re missing the point,” Nomad said. “Tens of millions of customers is exactly why Moore will do anything to protect the NanoVault’s reputation.”

“Again with the conspiracy theories,” Francois said. “You watch too much American TV. I am a respected academic meeting with a representative of a major corporation, not the KGB.”

“I pray I’m wrong,” Nomad said.

“Au revoir, my friend.”

“Wait,” Nomad said. “Before you hang up, what makes you think you know who I am?”

“I understand some hackers have a signature, patterns of behavior, code or techniques they use, that help identify the author.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“So do chess players.”

Nomad heard the knock at the Frenchman’s door. Francois called out to his visitor, and the call ended.

* * *

FRIDAY, APRIL 17
12:17 PM CEST (Central European Summer Time)
PARIS, FRANCE

Francois LeGrande imagined his meeting with the Moore Industries representative. They’ll want to see my research and review my findings. A lucrative offer for my work would be nice, but it would be an honor to receive one of Moore’s Distinguished Fellowships.

Francois rushed to answer the door. He never saw what the masked man pressed into his side, but the effect was immediate. His body convulsed, knees buckled, and his head struck the floor. Next came the duct tape over his mouth and around his wrists and ankles. He lay on the floor of his apartment, dazed and in pain, only half-aware of the large black boot that passed over his face.

Adrenaline surged. His heart raced. He fought to focus his thoughts. Blinked and squinted to clear his vision. He squirmed and wrestled against the restraints. Tried to call out, to scream. Nothing worked. In the futile struggle to free himself, his breathing was rapid and shallow. His vision blurred, and the room spun. Don’t pass out, he thought. Just breathe. Slow down. Listen.

From the hallway, it was difficult to know what the stranger was doing. Was Nomad right? No. Can’t be. If he was here to kill me, I’d be dead already. Then what? What does he want? His head throbbed as he thought back to the fleeting image of opening the door and looking up at the face. There was no face. Just a blur of gray and white rectangles. The man’s ball cap and hoodie obscured any chance of street cameras catching his approach to the building, and the camouflage mask stretched tight from his forehead to his neck prevented facial recognition.

Francois tried to follow the sound of the stranger’s steps. The attic apartment, converted from an 18th-century mansion, was elegant but small. While it suited the Frenchman, it took only moments to explore. He heard the wheels of the office chair as they rolled across the hardwood floor.

He’s in the bedroom.

The bedroom served as his home office. Stacks of books and papers shared his bed, and most of the floor. He pictured the stranger seated at his laptop and cursed his decision to close the connection with Nomad. If he knew, if he saw, he would call the police.

There was an odd sound. An electronic chirp beeping slowly at first, then faster and louder, then slow again. Finally, a solid tone for a moment, then silence.

Francois heard the tones of a cell phone. Too many digits, he thought. Not a local number.

“I have it,” the man said. “No, it has to be tonight. And count yourself lucky I could make this work on short notice.” There was another brief pause and then the call wrapped up. “Yes. Yes. I’ll keep it safe. Now, send me the drop site.”

American, Francois thought, and at that moment, all hope vanished. The businessman he thought might still arrive, might somehow intervene. The man he was expecting was already here. Despair wrapped him in an ice-cold blanket and he trembled. He stopped fighting back the tears and sobbed.

The American dragged Francois down the hallway and into the living room, and the tears gave way to terror when he surveyed the room. A chair from the small kitchen table was in the center. A rope stretched over the ancient oak beam that framed the ridge-line of the apartment’s ceiling, and a noose hung above the chair.

The duct tape muffled his attempts to cry out, and the masked man had little trouble setting the slight Frenchman on the chair. He slipped the noose over Francois’s head and pulled on the rope. Francois stiffened his back, lifted his chin, and gasped for air. The man kept one hand on the rope and the other drew a knife. With a flick and click, the blade locked into place, and in one sudden move he cut the tape binding Francois’s feet. He pulled the slack from the rope and Francois’s only escape from suffocation was to climb up on the chair.

The American tied the rope to the radiator, then stood directly in front of Francois and stared. The mask was disorienting, and Francois found it difficult to focus. He saw a black leather jacket and a gray hoodie. He saw dark blue jeans, and the boots. Large black boots. He could be anyone on the streets of Paris, even one of my students. What is he waiting for? What does he want?

“Let’s talk.”

The words startled him and Francois wobbled atop the wooden kitchen chair. The noose made it difficult to breathe, much less answer questions. When he raised up on the balls of his feet, he could almost take a full breath, but the old chair flexed and creaked when he moved. He knew at any moment it might collapse and he would hang.

“I’m going to remove the duct tape,” the masked man said. “I suggest you remain still. And quiet,” and he gave the rope a slight tug. “Understand?”

Francois nodded, and the stranger ripped the duct tape off the old man’s face. The Frenchman scrunched his eyes, gritted his teeth, and wrinkled his nose. Tears and snot seeped into his mustache. The American balled up the tape and noticed the collection of gray hair.

“Trust me,” he said. “Faster is better.” And then he reached into his jacket, fished out the shiny black device, and held it out for the Frenchman to see.

“Did you crack it?”

Laying in the palm of his glove was a Moore Industries NanoVault. The polished black onyx device, about the size of a woman’s lipstick, was ringed with seven combination dials that controlled access to the device’s unique properties. For the first time since the masked man crashed through his door, Francois thought he understood what was happening. He thinks I’m after the bounty. He thinks I’ve cracked the encryption.

The offer of a bounty, paid in anonymous, untraceable, and tax-free Bitcoins, intrigued cryptographic researchers and enticed the hacker denizens in every corner of the Darknet. Crack the encryption on a Quantum NanoVault, known affectionately as a portable Swiss Bank account, and you’d learn the location of 1,000 Bitcoins. What started as a clever promotional stunt became a worldwide phenomenon when Bitcoin values rose exponentially, and the bounty, still unclaimed, grew to tens of millions of dollars.

“No. No, Monsieur. I assure you, this device is worthless.”

“My client insisted I retrieve this specific device,” he said. “And paid handsomely to recover it immediately. I’d like to know why. What makes this device so valuable?”

“Please. Just take it and go.”

Francois imagined his ordeal might soon be over. He has what he came for. He can just leave.

The American slipped the device back into his pocket and glanced at his watch.

“What’s the combination?”

“It’s not locked.”

“What’s on it?”

“Nothing. I assure you, it’s completely blank,” and Francois nodded toward the laptop. “Go. See for yourself. You will see. It’s empty.”

The American took the device back to the desk, and the NanoVault connected automatically. He returned moments later.

“You’re right, it’s blank,” he said. “But if you’re not using it, why have one?”

“Research,” and Francois nodded toward the back wall. The American turned to see a lifetime of achievement and accolades. Among the faded degrees hanging on the wall were journal clippings, edges curled and fraying, a small shelf of dusty mathematics awards, and a handful of student group photos. Missing was any semblance of a life outside of academia. No wife. No family.

“Then, tell me Professeur,” he said, exaggerating the Frenchman’s academic position. “What makes this device so special?”

“Oh, but it’s not. It’s like any other. Available at any—”

The slap caught him before he could finish.

***

Excerpt from Relentless by Michael Maloof. Copyright 2023 by Michael Maloof. Reproduced with permission from Michael Maloof. All rights reserved.

Prologue

Vatican City, Rome – February 1740

The first symptom of the poisoning began as a fever.

Sitting at one of two long, white-silk-draped tables in the Sistine Chapel, along with sixty-seven of his fellow cardinal-electors, Pietro Ottoboni cast his vote for pope on the eighth day of the conclave to replace the late Pope Clement XII.

Enfeebled by fever, the seventy-three-year-old Ottoboni made his way toward the front of the chapel to a small altar below Michelangelo’s majestic fresco The Last Judgment, dropped his ballot onto a brass saucer, then tipped the saucer, letting the ballot fall into the large brass urn beneath it.

A few moments later, having returned to his seat, the cardinal collapsed onto the table, the high temperature having sapped his energy. Shocked, the other cardinals stood to better see what was happening to their colleague. The master of papal liturgical celebrations suspended the conclave while they moved Ottoboni to his apartment under the care of a Vatican physician.

Long considered favorite among the papabili to succeed Pope Clement, Pietro Ottoboni was born in the Most Serene Republic of Venice to a rich and noble family, whose most distinguished member was his grand-uncle, Pope Alexander VIII. Ottoboni had held every important post in the Vatican during an illustrious career and, as cardinal-bishop to several churches in Italy, his annual salary exceeded fifty thousand gold scudi—the present-day equivalent of six million dollars per year.

Cardinal Ottoboni had been a prolific paramour with a countless number of lovers, many of whom were married to the great patricians of Venice. In fact, the famous masks unique to Venetians were introduced not to ward off the plague, as many later believed, but to officially disguise the wearer’s identity—thus permitting anyone, noble or peasant, to do or say whatever one pleased. With this ingenious permissiveness, affari di cuore—affairs of the heart—were as common as the fleet of gondolas plying the canals of the celebrated city, without legal recourse. Having taken full advantage of this liberal device, Cardinal Ottoboni was known to have produced up to seventy children in his lifetime among his various mistresses.

Though he lived well in Rome’s grand Palazzo della Cancelleria, Ottoboni’s greatest passions were music and art, and he was a generous patron to some of the most renowned masters in both fields: Arcangelo Corelli, Alessandro Scarlatti, Giuseppe Crespi, Tintoretto, Paolo Veronese—and most of all, to his close friend and protégé, the prodigious maestro di violino of Venice, Antonio Vivaldi.

As he lay on his deathbed, Ottoboni summoned Vivaldi to his side. In a low, rasping voice, the cardinal confided to his friend a tale of great importance, a scandalous operation run by the notoriously corrupt Cardinal Niccolò Coscia in league with the feared secret Mafia organization known as the Camorra.

In fact, he added with struggling breath, he was convinced it was Coscia, acting on orders from the Camorra, who had poisoned him to keep him from acting on what he knew. With information gleaned from one of his many spies, Ottoboni had discovered the ongoing scandal days earlier and approached Cardinal Coscia with a warning that he and his Camorra would soon be out of business, at least as far as the Vatican was concerned. Were it not for his required attendance in the papal conclave, he would have put a stop to it sooner, especially if he was elected pope, an elevation to supreme power that was expected by everyone.

The following day, however, Cardinal Ottoboni succumbed to the poison, killed for a secret now known only to Antonio Vivaldi.

Like most Italians, Vivaldi survived cautiously within the Camorra’s Venetian sphere of influence. The secret society’s tentacles reached into everyone’s life, and their strict enforcement of the seal of omertà—the sacred code of silence—ensured clan activities remained discreet and wholly within la familia. The family.

Since the late seventeenth century, the Camorra had carved out its territories, starting in Naples and moving northward into the Lombardy and Veneto regions of Italy, encompassing its most lucrative prizes, Milan and Venice. Competing with La Cosa Nostra in Sicily and the 'Ndrangheta of Calabria, the Camorra’s criminal enterprises included prostitution, gambling, smuggling, kidnapping, and art theft—but also the unusual niche of producing and selling fine art forgeries of the highest order.

During the earlier reign of Pope Benedict XIII, who cared little for managing his vast realm of Papal States, Cardinal Niccolò Coscia oversaw all Vatican government operations, taking advantage of his authority to carry out substantial financial abuses, virtually draining the papal treasury. But his ongoing misdeeds eventually caught up with him. In 1731, he was charged with corruption, tried and convicted to ten years' imprisonment, and excommunicated from the Church.

However, still not without influence, he managed to get his heavy sentence commuted to a mere fine. He was also mysteriously reinstated as a cardinal, allowing him to take part in the papal conclave of 1740—the one during which Cardinal Ottoboni had died.

* * *

With Ottoboni out of the way, Cardinal Niccolò Coscia could now carry out his master plan without hindrance. In his not-so-secret role as capo of the Roman Camorra, Coscia led development of the Veneto branch of the Mafia clan, based in Venice and headquartered in his own newly acquired Palazzo Feudatario on the Grand Canal. Purchased with funds he had discreetly absconded from the Vatican treasury, Feudatario would be a most fitting place to carry out his planned forgery operation of the Vatican’s most profound works of art.

Niccolò Coscia was a meticulous diarist and, owing to all the business he conducted outside the Church, he had created the first book to record the activities of his new organization, naming it Il Giornale Coscia della Camorra Veneta—The Coscia Journal of the Veneto Camorra. In it he would secretly record careful notations of all paintings by artist and title, including each work’s provenance and to whom the forgeries or originals were sold, depending on which he chose to return to the Vatican—for many were prominently displayed in public, while most were simply returned to the Vatican’s vast art storage vaults, unseen by anyone.

The Coscia Journal would be passed down to each capintesta, head of the Veneto Camorra, for generations.

Unfortunately for Coscia, Cardinal Ottoboni’s spies had discovered not only the Camorra’s abhorrent plan for art forgeries, but the very existence of the Coscia Journal for recording such transactions. At that point Ottoboni’s death was preordained, for no one could ever know such proof existed.

* * *

Antonio Vivaldi, who at age twenty-five was ordained a Roman Catholic priest, was now at a crossroads. He feared possessing knowledge of the treacherous secret passed on to him by his esteemed patron in his dying moments. Putting himself at odds with the Camorra was not just an unappealing prospect; it could end up costing him his life, depending on what he did with what he knew.

But Cardinal Ottoboni had one last request of his protégé.

Intent on stopping the sinful and unlawful activities of Cardinal Coscia, Ottoboni had pleaded with Vivaldi to see that Coscia was brought to justice, to pay for his felonious actions. Distressed by letting his friend and mentor die without the satisfaction of such a promise, Vivaldi agreed to do what he could. He would ensure that the authorities were informed, the Coscia Journal would be found, and the matter would be settled.

After the cardinal’s stately funeral, Vivaldi waited for the right moment to fulfill his promise. But as he waited, he became more apprehensive. He was just a lowly priest, after all, and not a very good one at that. The violin was his life, and teaching it was his life’s work. Besides, who would believe him? Where was the proof? And what would the Camorra do to him if he were to expose its business? He had seen the results of their retribution—those who crossed the Mafia were dealt with harshly. Beheadings were not uncommon, and those who weren’t beheaded were drawn and quartered—alive. No, he must find a way to honor his pledge without exposing himself to such horrible consequences.

An idea came to him: he would hide the messages in plain sight, in his musical compositions.

Picking up a sheet of staff lined manuscript paper, Vivaldi began to assemble the first of many, his Scherzo Tiaseno in Sol.

* * *

Venice, Italy—Present Day

An enormous flight of pigeons, hundreds of them, flocked overhead, diving for potato chips and bits of bread sticks tourists had enthusiastically tossed out for them, as Father Michael Dominic and Hana Sinclair made their way across the Piazza San Marco.

Despite the ban on pigeon-feeding in St. Mark’s Square, little children were oblivious to the law and more amused by the flapping gray-and-white spectacle than frightened by the few gendarmerie patrolling the square, whose policing efforts to stop the feeding were futile. Venetian health experts estimate over 130,000 pigeons had roosted in the historic center—well over optimal concentrations for such a small public space—and efforts to rid the city of the determined birds had failed miserably. The damage to the marble buildings and statuary was considerable, not to mention possible pathogenic health hazards.

Locals knew it was often prudent to cover one’s head with a newspaper or magazine when crossing the vast piazza, lest strollers subject themselves to the inevitable bombardment of bird droppings from above.

An old hand at the practice, Father Dominic had kept pages of the newspaper he had read at breakfast for that very purpose, knowing he and Hana had to cross the piazza in order to get to Venice’s Biblioteca Marciana, the Library of Saint Mark.

The director of the library had requested the Vatican’s help with a planned exhibition of manuscripts held in its stacks, and as Prefect of the Vatican Secret Archives, Michael Dominic had accepted the invitation, while also taking a week’s vacation time in the fabled city. At only thirty-one years old, his access to the Vatican’s vast number of historical manuscripts still humbled him. The Biblioteca Marciana was yet one more repository of ancient wonders that fascinated him.

Lovingly named La Serenissima by Italians devoted to its “most serene” natural and historical wonders, Venice was also Michael Dominic’s favorite city in the world. He loved its vibrancy, its rich history as a major world trading port up to and through the Renaissance period and, of course, the inherent romantic nature of the people and their ancient ways.

“I’m so glad you could join me, Hana,” Dominic said as they walked through the piazza. “Have you ever experienced Carnivale before?”

Holding the newspaper awkwardly over her stylish wide brim straw hat, Hana replied with a contented sigh. “I was here once, years ago, but Carnivale had just ended. I’ve been meaning to be here for the real festivities for some time now, and since my editors wanted a piece on the celebration for Le Monde’s Weekend Section, I volunteered for the assignment.”

She looked up at the priest and smiled. “Thanks for letting me tag along with you, Michael. I don’t mind that you have a little business to attend to. I need some time off myself and can always float around in a gondola and take notes while you’re occupied.”

Dominic laughed as he removed the newspaper from over his head, having passed the worst pigeon zone. He took Hana’s paper and tossed them both in a trash receptacle alongside the library façade. “I can just see you now, laid out on a shiny black gondola, that fetching hat drawing everyone’s eye as you cruise the canals. A fashion photographer’s dream. But let’s have some fun together while we’re here as well.”

“Agreed. I can get some writing done after dinner each night,” she said with a sly grin. “So, what’s in this library that you’ve been asked to weigh in on?”

“I’m meeting with Paolo Manetti, the curator of the Marciana’s Cardinal Bessarion Library, a special wing containing the original founder’s collection of books and precious manuscripts from 1468. The Vatican has an original translation of Homer’s Iliad, a companion version to his Odyssey, but the Marciana has the oldest actual texts of the Iliad. Manetti has asked me to consider lending ours to the Marciana for a temporary exhibition on Homer. They also have the only autograph copy of commentary on the Odyssey from the twelfth century, so it should be a fine showcase.”

Fascinated as she was by Dominic’s explanation, Hana’s eyes glazed as the warm sun took hold of her, her white cotton midi skirt fluttering in the light breeze. They had passed the tall brick Campanile and were now walking through the piazzetta between the Marciana Library and the Doge’s Palace, heading toward the entrance to the Grand Canal. It wasn’t quite noon yet, the appointed time for Dominic’s meeting, so they settled onto a stone bench near the traghetto, the gondola landing overlooking the Church of San Giorgio Maggiore on the island across the lagoon. Vaporetti, gondolas, and sleek mahogany water taxis plied the calm waters as they sat there, each in their own dreamy state of mind, an effect Venice had on every visitor.

As the tower bells of the Campanile struck twelve, Dominic leaned back for a deep stretch to rouse himself, then stood and reached out for Hana’s hand to help her up. With one last glance over the lagoon, they headed toward the library.

Chapter 1

Present Day

The entrance to the Marciana Library Palace—heavy wooden doors flanked by two larger-than-life Greek marble statues—opened into the opulent vestibule, where a two-flight staircase took visitors to the upper loggias.

Looking up as they walked the marble halls, Hana fixated on the ceiling, which featured twenty-one roundels, circular oil paintings by seven notable Renaissance artists commissioned in 1556. They looked as fresh today as at the time they were painted, Hana mused, overwhelmed by their unusual spherical beauty. Reaching one of the reading rooms, sunlight streamed in from the high glass ceiling, bathing the three-story room in a diffused natural light. Surrounding the reading tables on all sides were a series of Doric arches with a handsome frieze on one wall featuring rosy-faced cherubs and garlands of fruit and flowers.

A slim, well-dressed man with long, black hair who looked to be in his fifties was walking toward them, a welcoming smile on his face. Dominic smiled in response as the man approached.

“Padre Michael, welcome back to the Marciana!” he beamed as he extended his hand.

“Paolo! What a great pleasure to see you again. This is my friend and colleague, Hana Sinclair. Hana, this is Paolo Manetti, curator of the Bessarion Library here.”

The three exchanged handshakes and pleasantries. Then Manetti turned, gesturing for them to follow him.

“We’ll be using my private office to view the Iliad. Better to keep tourists from flocking around us. I already have it set up.”

He led them through the upper loggia and down a corridor leading to various offices, entering a corner room that overlooked the piazzetta and the lagoon.

“Not only do you have a stunning library here, Signor Manetti,” Hana remarked, “but you probably have the best office in the building!”

Manetti grinned shyly. “Please, call me Paolo, Miss Sinclair. And yes, I am very fortunate to have such a wondrous place to work. What you see around you is my life. Like our friend Michael here, my love for antiquities of the Old World has no bounds.”

Dominic nodded in agreement, then turned to his companion. “Hana, if you’d like to better explore the library while Paolo and I are working, please feel free. We should only be a half hour or so. Take it all in; it truly is a marvelous old building filled with treasures you won’t find anywhere else.”

“I’ll do that, thanks. Just come find me when you’re ready.” Hana turned and left the office, making her way back to the reading rooms and their glorious artworks and statuary.

A large table in the center of Manetti’s office held several reference books, various implements for examining documents—a digital microscope, magnifying glass, blacklight, leather sandbag weights—and several large parchment manuscripts which had been laid out on it. One in particular was the chief item of interest: the only copy of the commentary on Homer's Odyssey written entirely by the hand of the author.

Putting on a pair of white gloves, Dominic handled the manuscript guardedly, gazing at the beautiful script by the hand of Eustathius of Thessalonica, the Byzantine scholar and rhetorician of the twelfth century.

“This is our finest treasure, Michael, and one of the oldest in the library,” Manetti said. “It will be one of the principal features of our exhibition. But now, look at this.”

With a gentle flourish, he reached across the table and pulled over two comparable manuscripts.

“These are Venetus A and Venetus B, the oldest texts of Homer's Iliad, with centuries of Greek scholia written in the margins.”

As Dominic recalled, since the first century, ancient commentators known as scholiasts would insert grammatical or explanatory notations, even critical commentary, in the margins of the manuscripts of early authors. Over time, centuries in fact, successive copyists or those who owned a particular manuscript altered the scholia, and sometimes the practice expanded so much that there was no longer room for scholia in the margins, so it became necessary to produce them as separate works. No copy machines, just dedicated scribes working with Egyptian reed pens and feather quills to patiently reproduce one-of-a-kind originals.

“These are truly extraordinary, Paolo,” Dominic declared, his hands shaking slightly as he held the ancient parchments. “I can certainly see why you’d want to share these in your exhibition. I can confidently say the Vatican will cooperate in any way we can. I’ll make arrangements for the original translation of Homer’s Iliad to be couriered to you when I return to Rome. I assume you’ll have appropriate security arrangements in place?”

“Of course, Michael. Apart from our own security detail, the federal Carabinieri has offered to provide full protection for us. We are simply the custodians of these masterpieces, but they are part of Italy’s proud heritage and the government takes that responsibility quite seriously.

“And thank you for your generous contribution, Michael,” he continued. “Your Iliad will be in excellent hands, I can assure you.”

“When we spoke last week,” Dominic said, “you mentioned another piece you wanted to discuss?”

Manetti turned somber. “Yes, there is something else I need to show you, and I’d like to get your opinion on it. This came to us recently from a local donor who wishes to remain publicly anonymous, and while its value is undeniable and a welcomed donation to our collection, I am not quite sure what to make of its meaning.”

The curator rummaged about the other manuscripts on the table, his gloved hands repositioning each document carefully, until he found what appeared to be an autograph musical manuscript, with staff lines and bars of musical notations, placed inside a small Mylar protective sleeve. While it was in relatively good condition, given its apparent antiquity, its corners had been chipped and there were many creases across the paper, as if someone had folded it many times at some point. Its size was quite small, a half sheet of standard paper at most.

“Well, this looks interesting, though I must admit I know little about musical manuscripts. Who is it by?” Dominic asked.

As he peered closely at the manuscript, Hana returned from her brief tour of the library and walked up to stand silently next to the two men. She glanced at the object of their attention while Manetti continued.

“This, my friend, was penned by the hand of Venice’s own maestro di violino Antonio Vivaldi. He gave it the title Scherzo Tiaseno in Sol, and it appears to be a scherzo in the truest, most literal meaning of that word—a joke! It is a fair enough piece of music, but nowhere near the level one would expect from a Baroque master like Vivaldi. If it is a joke, then the question is, why? And for whom? There must be more than meets the ear.

“This is marked as page two, so there may still exist a page one somewhere. The donor was rather circumspect on the matter, but as Vivaldi was her sixth great-grand-uncle, the provenance is well established.” Manetti looked up at Dominic questioningly and shrugged.

As Hana read the notes, she weighed in. “You’re right, Paolo. This isn’t anything close to what Vivaldi was known to have composed. And scherzos are normally in three, like a waltz, but this has the bar lines in the wrong place. There must be some other meaning to it.”

“You read music?!” Dominic asked her, somewhat taken aback.

“Of course, I studied music for years at St. Stevens School, and I play both the piano and cello,” she replied, a shy smile playing across her face.

“Will wonders never cease with you?” Dominic asked, grinning mischievously.

“Oh, please,” she said modestly. “We all have our secret talents. And I can hardly travel around with a cello.”

Turning to the curator, she asked, “Paolo, may I have a closer look at this?”

“Of course, signorina,” he said encouragingly.

Hana accepted the Mylar sleeve from Dominic and took a seat by one of the windows. Reading the music, she hummed the notes, emitting a series of high, low, and mid-range sounds which produced no tune whatsoever.

“Okay, this is really strange. There is nothing here that might even imply that an artist with Vivaldi’s genius was creating anything good, much less great. But why would he do that? From what I know, he wrote beautiful music feverishly, wasting not a precious second on something like this. But there must be a reason.”

“I completely agree, signorina,” Manetti said, nodding. “But what are we to do with this? We must have some kind of explanation for such an artifact if we are to display it.”

Hana had a thought. “Paolo, can you make a copy of this for me? I have an old friend, Dr. Livia Gallo, my former music teacher at St. Stevens, who is an expert in Vivaldi and other Baroque masters. Maybe she has some idea of what this might represent?”

Manetti was delighted. “Yes! I would be happy to provide you with a copy if it helps to better understand this. You must assure me that you will not share it with anyone else except your colleague, yes? Until we understand it better, I wouldn’t want speculations to be awkward for our donor.”

“Yes, of course, only Dr. Gallo will see it. For that matter, it’s small enough that I can just take a photo of it with my iPhone. Would that be acceptable?”

“Better yet,” Manetti replied. “That way there are no loose copies to get lost. Oh, and please do not use the flash.”

Hana returned the manuscript to the table, removed her phone from her bag, then took a full frame shot of the piece under natural light.

“Paolo,” Dominic asked, “might we get an introduction to your donor, this Vivaldi descendant? Hana and I may be able to get more relevant information from her that can assist Dr. Gallo. Where does she live?”

“Here in Venice, in one of the great palazzos on the Grand Canal. I don’t think the contessa would mind at all, actually. She’s quite the conversationalist.”

“A contessa?!” Hana asked, surprised.

“Oh yes, she comes from a very old noble line herself and married well, besides. Contessa Donatella Vivaldi Durazzo. She must be in her eighties now, a delightful woman, very generous in her philanthropy. She is one of the jewels of Venice, a wonderful patron of the arts, adored by everyone. She lives in Palazzo Grimaldi in the Dorsoduro, not far from the Guggenheim Museum. I would be pleased to make an introduction.”

“Excellent! We’ll be here all week, Paolo, and it would be a treat to see one of the famed palazzos on the Grand Canal,” Dominic said excitedly. “Not to mention meeting Italian nobility.”

Manetti smiled assuringly at his old friend.

“We’re staying at the Ca’ Sagredo, Paolo,” Hana said. “You can reach us there, but here’s my mobile number if you need us at any time.” She wrote down her number on a slip of paper and handed it to Manetti.

“Grazie, signorina. I will make the call this evening and let you know when she is available.”

“Where to now?” Hana asked Dominic as they left the building, having said their goodbyes to Manetti.

“I thought we’d have a bite of lunch at Quadri, then saunter over to St. Mark’s Basilica and say hello to a friend of mine from my seminary days. We’ve come all this way, and I’d hate to miss seeing him.”

“Lead the way,” Hana said breezily, placing her wide-brimmed straw hat back on her head. “I’m ready for some fresh seafood, aren’t you?”

“You bet. Just watch out for pigeons, though, as I’ve tossed the newspapers.”

Chapter 2

Among the many fine palazzos lining the Grand Canal is an understated, three-story ocher palace, somewhat more slender than its neighbors but nonetheless impressive. Its more observable features include a grand entrance off the gondola traghetto, with a black, scalloped awning over the brick staircase leading up from the water’s edge; several full-width balconies with ornamental balustrades at each end; heavily draped, arched picture windows overlooking the canal—and a cadre of armed security guards posted around the grounds of Palazzo Feudatario.

As a glossy mahogany water taxi approached the dock, two beefy men appeared from the palazzo’s entrance to greet the sole visitor on board, a priest called to administer last rites to the dying master of the house—a man known to all of Venice as Don Lucio Gambarini, the capintesta, or head-in-chief of the Veneto Camorra.

A stout man in his sixties, Don Gambarini had suffered a paralyzing stroke some weeks prior, and as his health had further declined, his death was not unexpected. In the meantime, the capintriti, heads of the twelve districts under Don Gambarini’s leadership, had assembled in the grand house, set to squabbling as to who would take over as leader of the clan when the great capintesta met his end.

But that was hardly on Gambarini’s mind when Father Carlo Rinaldo entered the formal master bedroom to hear the Don’s confession and administer extreme unction, the final anointing with last rites before death. Rinaldo had never met Gambarini before, though he was aware of the Don’s reputation, one deserving of a robust confession if he were truly repentant.

The large, well-appointed bedroom had many people standing around, vying for the boss’s attention should he wish to suddenly name one of them as his successor. But Gambarini would have none of it yet, demanding the bedroom be cleared except for the priest, who would hear his confession privately.

As everyone ambled out of the room, giving each other dark glances, the door was closed as Rinaldo placed a violet stole around his neck, then reached into his black leather bag and withdrew a small bottle of holy water, a crucifix, and his Bible.

“Don Gambarini, my name is Father Rinaldo, from St. Mark’s. Do you wish to make a confession?”

“Where is my regular priest, Father Viani?”

“I’m afraid he is on sabbatical, signore, and will not return for some time. He entrusted his duties to me in his absence.”

Gambarini looked wide-eyed at the priest for a long while, trembling, gauging his predicament. Rinaldo found terror in the man’s eyes. Not an uncommon occurrence for one so close to death, but there was something more. Some heavy burden the man was struggling with. All the priest could do was wait for his penitent to make the first move.

“Father, I do wish to make a confession,” Gambarini began, “but it is not one you are going to like.”

“I make no judgments at all, signore. I am but the Lord’s servant in this matter. He alone passes judgment. But that depends on how you wish to leave this life, carrying with you the dark burden of your transgressions, or absolved of sin in His light.” Rinaldo gestured upward as he said this.

Gambarini paused, glanced around the room, then looked deep into the priest’s eyes. “Before we begin, Father, I must ask of you an important favor, for my sins are so great, my penance must include some action on your part—but only after I am dead.

“What I am about to tell you involves a serious crime against the Vatican itself, an offense which has been ongoing for centuries, and still takes place to this very day. I fear I will not have God’s full absolution unless this matter is revealed once and for all. And you must be the one to tell it to others, so that it will stop. Is that agreeable?”

Such an unusual request completely mystified Rinaldo. Never had he been asked to play a part in a confessor’s penance. And to do so, he would have to break the sacred seal of the confessional; he was uncertain if having permission to do so by the penitent absolved him of that restraint. He would have to speak with someone about that later.

He walked across the room and picked up a chair. Placing it next to Gambarini’s bed, he took a seat. He paused a moment to consider the situation.

“Let me hear your confession, my son. If it is within my power, I will do my part as you ask.”

***

Excerpt from The Vivaldi Cipher by Gary McAvoy. Copyright 2021 by Gary McAvoy. Reproduced with permission from Gary McAvoy. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

The blot of ink stuck to her finger, tacky like drying blood. Leona scrubbed at it with her handkerchief as the clock chimed two hours after midnight. She capped the inkwell, and while the ink dried on her most recent entry, she organized the copies with ribbons. Blue for Daphne and red for Ruth. With shaking hands, she slipped the copies into stiff cardboard folios and tied them closed. Sighing, she set them on the desk in front of her.

The flames in the hearth beckoned. This wasn’t the first night she’d yearned for obliteration. It wouldn’t come if she gave in to the urge to throw her labor into the fire. Only paper and ink would vanish, leaving the memories behind.

Pen and ink or back to the laudanum.

A grim thought, the grimmest of all.

The words had clawed their way out tonight. She’d begun the memoir of her time as a Union soldier months ago with the hope her drowning spirits would revive once the words dropped to the page. Yet the foreboding crept through her and tightened around her throat as the little study filled with familiar shadows. This old terror had become a second skin, like the tattered and dirty uniform she’d once worn.

Over the monotonous chatter of the rain, the clock ticked away the seconds until her husband came home. Leona moved to the window, pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains, and looked out at night-shrouded Cranberry Street. A lamp glowed in a window across the street. Homesickness for Boston, for life before the war, for herself before the war, settled on her. The wind threw a heavy splash of rain against the window, and she jumped back, letting go of the curtain.

Pacing the study, her restless thoughts rushed on without fatigue. To keep the memories inside only fed the persistent mental return to the battlefield, and the outpouring of words somewhat tamed her tormented soul. She stopped and touched the folio. Work would save her: work, family, friendship, and love. Maybe she’d write a story about two clocks. A natural clock which kept good time and a mad clock that twisted time out of true.

The street door below opened and closed. At last Gil, home safe. She couldn’t even bring herself to scold him for being so late. Leona listened for his footsteps as she crossed the room to tuck the folios into her desk drawer and locked it. She closed the gaslight apertures in the study and turned up the flame on the wall sconces in the drafty hallway so he could find his way. In the bedroom, she shed her dressing gown, stepped out of her slippers, and kicked them under the bed. Gil made his clumsy climb up the stairs. When he stumbled into the room, she pulled the covers back. He fell into bed fully clothed beside her, mumbling and fretful, the sharp ripe scent of whiskey lacing his breath.

She laid her hand on his shoulder. Beneath the cloth of his shirt, his skin was cold and damp. “Rest now, go to sleep,” she whispered.

***

At first light, Leona had dressed in a blue and cream day gown and made her way downstairs for breakfast. The creeping dread of the night before had waned. She rubbed her gritty eyes and yawned again. Mrs. McCarthy poured coffee from the silver pot, the familiar, civilized table a welcome sight. The scent of bacon made her stomach growl.

“Are you well, m’um?”

Leona glanced into the broad face of their cook and housekeeper, a sturdy and mature woman with a comforting Irish burr. She wore her fading blonde hair in a crown around her head.

“I didn’t sleep much.” Leona yawned again behind her fingers.

Gil’s heavy tread on the stairs made them both jump, and Mrs. McCarthy squeaked.

“I’ll bring more breakfast in a jiffy.” She fled through the side door to the kitchen just as Gil ducked through the hall entrance.

Leona rose and smiled at her husband. He’d made a great effort to come down early after returning so late. She accepted his peck on the cheek, poured him coffee and set it between them, wifely mask in place. He glared with bloodshot eyes at the letter in his hand, and her stomach clenched.

“It’s not all bad news, Gil.” She’d read the contents of the letter before leaving it on his desk in his study, as Grandfather had addressed it to both.

He raised his hazel eyes to her. “You recall Henry has absconded with all our funds?” he asked in a sarcastic tone, squinting at the letter, then back at her.

She no longer knew what to say about Gil’s former business partner, Henry Caldwell-Jones. The police were still looking for him. It put the devil in Gil’s eyes to speak of it, so she tried to let it be, not wanting to distress him even more.

“Of course, I remember, Gil. I—”

“And now your grandfather won’t give me a second loan. I’ll have to go back to the bank and ask them again.”

“He only wants to speak with you face to face about our situation,” she said, in her grandfather’s defense. “He’ll help us, Gil. He did offer to speak at the lyceum on his return from Ohio, to help raise funds. It isn’t as if—” Or was it? “We won’t lose the house, will we?”

The muscles in his lean face twitched as Gil fought to hide his disappointment, and her heart broke a little more to witness it. “Your grandfather does not bring in the interest he once did.”

It was true Leona’s grandfather, poet, abolitionist, and Transcendentalist, didn’t bring in the money he used to at readings in New York and Brooklyn, but he didn’t suffer for it.

Gil raked his fingers through his thick, brown hair and opened his mouth. Mrs. McCarthy entered with his breakfast, apparently stopping what he meant to say next. He reached inside the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small notebook and pencil. Laying them on the table, his frown deepened.

Once Mrs. McCarthy had bustled out again, Leona said, “I could write to Aunt Louisa.” Who was not truly an aunt, but a friend of her mother’s.

He opened the notebook and touched the tip of his tongue to the pencil. “We cannot afford to feed and house a man of Bronson Alcott’s caliber,” he replied with heaviness. He bent his head to the columns of numbers on the pages.

His confidence and spirits were usually high, and it hurt to see him laid so low. She did mean Louisa Alcott herself, not her father Bronson Alcott, as the speaker for the lyceum to draw a crowd. Her novel, Little Women, published two years before, had become hugely popular.

“I’ll sell the lyceum, that should help,” Gil murmured, eyes downcast.

Leona winced. It was where they’d met nearly a year before. At a loss again, she glanced down at her lapel watch—9 o’clock already. She stood and set cups and plates on the tray.

“Let Mrs. McCarthy do that.” His pencil went on calculating their precarious position.

“I don’t mind. I’m off to see Daphne this morning. I won’t be home until the late afternoon.” Taking a deep breath, she dared to ask, not expecting an answer. “How much do we owe?” She blew out her held breath, apprehension biting at her. “Why won’t you tell me how much Henry has stolen?”

“He’s made me a laughingstock.” His handsome lips formed a tight smile, but he didn’t look at her. “Don’t you worry, Leona, leave it to me. This will all be over by Christmas.”

***

On the street, she began to walk, then turned to observe the window where Gil labored, smoke curling from the chimney. The image stayed with her as she made her way to the newsstand around the corner and waited patiently for her turn to buy a paper. The sunny day, though cold, had driven people outdoors, well wrapped in fur-collared coats and wool scarves. Woodsmoke and the sharp tang of the river mingling with the scent of baking bread drifted on the breeze. She chewed on the frustration that he wouldn’t share their financial details with her. It made her more fearful not to know. Though she kept the memoir and chapter stories a secret from him, this was hardly the same.

Passing the newsstand, an article about the new bridge caught her eye so she bought the latest Brooklyn Eagle. The previous summer, the four of them, Henry, his wife Helen, herself, and Gil, had stood at the end of Noble Street to watch the construction of the giant caissons in the naval yard. Though approval of the bridge was a long-foregone conclusion, the article was typical of the Eagle’s awful anti-consolidation fear mongering. The article repeated the claim linking the boroughs would only bring the dregs of Manhattan’s Lower East Side into Brooklyn’s pure white Heights. The wrongness of such an attitude churned her stomach.

Leona folded the paper and tucked it under her arm with the folio, sighing. Who would save the poor of this world from the hatred of the rich? Her spirits drooped lower.

She breathed deep the November air on familiar, tree-lined Remsen Street, where she’d lived for two years before marrying Gil in August. The red door of the brownstone opened, welcoming her in. Timothy, the butler, took her hat and coat. Before he disappeared with them, his eyes met hers with a familiar blue twinkle.

“I’ll tell her you’re here,” he said.

“Thank you.” She inhaled the sweet smell of hothouse roses set in vases along the long hallway and waited for word of her arrival to reach Daphne and her nurse Audrey.

Audrey approached from the depths of the house. Her eyes, though hooded, were a pure delphinium blue, blonde hair pinned tight to her head. She wore a plain uniform of dark gray with long cuffed sleeves and a white apron.

“Mrs. Van Wyn is in the Lavender Room.” With a curt nod, she turned away.

When they first met, Leona and Audrey had often shared tea and conversation, but of late Leona felt nothing but a wall of smothered animosity between them. They hadn’t argued, as such, though she had an idea where the strained relations came from.

“Is she well?” Leona asked.

For a moment, she didn’t think Audrey would answer, but the woman turned toward her again. “She passed a quiet night. The laudanum helps.”

Leona frowned. Audrey flicked a dismissive hand and went on her way.

The introduction of laudanum in Daphne’s life began not long after Leona moved to Cranberry Street with Gil that summer. The spas and cures Daphne’s grandson Benedict and his wife arranged didn’t seem to help anymore. The family hired Audrey, who administered the laudanum, a common enough panacea. Laudanum’s presence always disturbed Leona, and she had protested to the family, but no one listened. Audrey had become cold after this discussion. Leona believed some of Daphne’s pain came from her daily battle with grief. Leona often feared her own grief and the overuse of laudanum, prescribed by a respected doctor in Boston, had killed the child from her previous marriage to Jack Davenport. Poor dead Jack.

***

Excerpt from The Last Fatal Hour by Jan Matthews. Copyright 2026 by Jan Matthews. Reproduced with permission from Jan Matthews. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Cheryl

The nursing smock pulled across my middle. I’d lost much of my belly since giving birth two days ago, but I was nowhere near back to my normal size. Still, the top was clean, professional, and anonymous. I found it in a lost and found bin as I checked out of All Saint’s Hospital. The universe providing what I needed.

Or maybe I was so far gone that stealing clothes from charity felt like fate instead of desperation.

The afternoon sun slanted through the windows of Mercy Hospital's third floor, creating geometric patterns on the polished linoleum. The halls were quieter now, that lull between lunch trays and dinner rounds.

I had stood outside the building for the past ten minutes, my heart a trapped bird hammering against my ribs. I didn’t know what I was doing here. Didn’t know what I was looking for.

That was a lie. I knew exactly what I had come for.

The maternity ward.

A baby.

To replace the baby I lost.

The thought crystallized with such sudden clarity that I stopped walking, one hand braced against the wall. Was that what I was doing? Was that why I hadn’t been able to get into my car this morning and drive home? Why I checked out of the hospital where my life altered forever, but then just... drove here instead? To this hospital on the other side of Kansas City from where my daughter died?

No. No. I wasn’t thinking straight. Grief did strange things to people. I read that somewhere. The five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

I was somewhere between denial and completely out of my mind insane.

Adjusting my large handbag on my shoulder, I entered the hospital and took the elevator to the maternity floor.

A nurse passed me, pushing a cart full of supplies, and didn't even glance my way. Why would she? I wore medical attire. Pausing at a room, I pulled a chart from the rack on the door. Even though my hands wouldn't stop shaking and there was a ringing in my ears that wouldn't go away, I looked as if I had every right to be walking these halls,

Room 347's door stood open.

Through the doorway, I could see her.

Young. Maybe twenty-five. Dark blonde hair pulled back from a face that was tired but glowing with that particular radiance of new motherhood.

She sat up in bed, cradling a bundle wrapped in a pink blanket, gazing down with such tenderness that I had to grip the doorframe to keep from staggering.

That's what I looked like mere days ago. For exactly two hours, that was my face, my joy, my daughter in my arms.

Before she stopped breathing.

Before the doctor said that there was nothing more they could do and then, worse, that I wouldn’t be able to have more children.

I didn’t plan to stop. Didn’t plan to look inside. My hand was already on the doorframe.

The woman in the bed shifted, adjusting her hold, and talked softly to her infant. The baby, I could see a tiny fist, a shock of dark hair, made a small noise in response.

Alive! That baby was alive.

Mine wasn't.

The grief rose like a wave, threatening to pull me under, and I must have made a sound because the woman looked up, her eyes finding mine.

“Oh!” She startled, but then smiled, warm and unsuspecting. “Hi.”

I should have left. Mumbled an apology about the wrong room and walked away. Should have gotten in my car and driven home to Rochester and figured out how to tell my two-year-old son that his baby sister was never coming home.

Maybe I should have called my husband in Afghanistan, if I could have even reached him through military channels, and shattered his heart with the news that our daughter died and there would never be another. His job was top secret, which meant dangerous. I couldn’t do that to him and risk his safety.

I should have done anything except what I was doing, which was stepping into this stranger's hospital room as if I had every right to be here.

“Hello.” My voice came out steady and cheerful. Normal. Like I was actually a healthcare worker making rounds instead of a woman whose mind broke somewhere between the morgue and here. “I'm a CNA. I’m checking to see if you needed anything.”

“Oh.” Her smile widened.

She looked young. Happy. Completely unaware that she was speaking to someone who was coming apart at the seams.

“That's kind, thank you. I'm okay, I think. Just tired.”

I moved closer, my body on autopilot while my brain screamed, ‘What are you doing!’ I lifted her plastic water pitcher and gave it a shake. “Let me refill your water pitcher.”

“That would be great. The nurse was here a few minutes ago, but I forgot to ask.”

My hands knew what to do even if my mind didn't. I took the pitcher to the small bathroom and filled it from the tap. These were normal actions. Helpful actions. Things a real CNA would do.

When I returned, the baby had started to fuss. The woman, I didn’t even know, was soothing her while simultaneously looking exhausted.

“Would you like me to order you a snack from the kitchen?” I offered as I organized things on her tray. “Is your family coming back soon?”

“My husband went home to get our other kids—they're dying to meet their baby sister.” She laughed, but there's an edge of weariness to it. “He texted twenty minutes ago, so probably 40 minutes. And honestly, a snack sounds amazing before they get here.

I should have left then. Should have made some excuse and gone before I did something I couldn't take back. But instead, I straightened her sheets, adjusted her pillows, playing this role like I was born to it.

The baby quieted and appeared to be dozing.

“She's been like this on and off since her last feeding,” the woman said, swaying gently. “I think she just wants to be held, but I really need a shower before the kids get here.”

“That’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot today,” I said.

My mind reeled. This could be my chance. She had other children, even a daughter.

“I’ll watch her,” I said. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. “While you shower. If you'd like.”

Would she say yes?

Could I actually take this baby?

The woman's face transformed with relief. “Oh my god, you're an angel. Are you sure? I feel bad asking.”

“It's no trouble at all.” My voice remained steady, and I smiled, even though my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. “It’s one of my duties. And I love holding these tiny newborns.”

I had a baby two days ago. She died in my arms.

“Thank you. I can’t wait to stand in a hot shower.” She laughed and gently handed the baby to me; this precious weight settled into my arms with such devastating familiarity. “Her name is Greta,” she added.

The universe was either remarkably cruel or offering me a second chance. I couldn't tell which.

“She's beautiful,” I managed, and it was not a lie. She was pink-cheeked and perfect and very alive.

The woman, wincing slightly, moved toward the bathroom. “I'll be quick. Ten minutes, tops.” She paused at the bathroom door and turned to me.

“Oh, I didn't catch your name?”

“I’m sorry.” I looked down at my uniform where a name tag should have been. “Darn if I haven’t lost my name tag again. I’m Gina,” I lied.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Melissa.” She disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving her newborn daughter with a complete stranger, who showed up unannounced wearing stolen medical attire.

The sound of the shower running came through the door.

I looked down at baby Greta.

She' wasn’t fussing; her dark eyes seemed to gaze at me, her tiny mouth working in that unconscious sucking motion newborns make. She weighed almost nothing in my arms. A handful of life. A miracle.

This one is right here. This one is alive, whispered a dark voice in my desperate mind.

My handbag sat on the floor behind the door, where I left it. The large leather tote Brad gave me this past Mother's Day before he deployed. “For all the baby stuff you'll need to carry,” he'd said, grinning, his hand on my pregnant belly. “Only the best for my girls.”

I could still see his face when he said it. Still feel the weight of his excitement, his absolute certainty that he was coming home to meet his daughter.

How did I tell him he wasn’t? How did I go home and face the empty nursery, the unworn baby clothes, the dreams that died with our daughter?

You don't have to.

The thought slid through my mind like poison, like salvation.

You don't have to tell him anything. You could just go home.

With a baby.

With this baby.

He never needs to know what happened.

The shower ran. I could hear Melissa humming something soft and off-key.

My feet moved before I made a conscious decision.

Crossing to the door with this tiny bundle of joy, I picked up my handbag. The expensive leather was soft, loved. Brad's gift. Brad's trust.

It slipped from my hand and fell onto the tile floor.

I was about to betray both. I should put the baby in her bassinet and leave while I still could.

But Baby Greta made a small coo as if a sign. Before I could change my mind, I picked up the bag, shook it open and settled the swaddled baby into the bag. She fit perfectly, as if were made for her.

My hands trembled so badly that I could barely drape my scarf over the opening, hiding her from view. She didn’t cry. Don’t protest. Just settled into sleep as if she trusted me.

She shouldn't.

The shower was still running.

I had maybe five minutes before Melissa finished. Maybe less.

My body moved on its own, propelled by something beyond thought, beyond reason. Shock, maybe. Or survival instinct. Or a complete psychotic break dressed up as maternal desperation.

I stepped to the door. My legs felt disconnected from my body, as if I were watching someone else. Someone who looked like me but couldn’t possibly be, because I was a good person. I was a good mother. I would never.

But I was. I was doing this right now.

The corridor stretched ahead, impossibly long. A nurse stood at the station, her back to me, reviewing a chart. An orderly pushed a wheelchair past, not even glancing my way. A man carried flowers toward a room down the hall, whistling.

Normal people doing normal things while I stole past carrying a newborn in my handbag.

Every step felt like a mile. My pulse pounded loudly in my ears. They know, my brain screamed. They can tell. They're going to stop you.

The alarms are going to go off. Someone was going to grab my arm and say, ‘what do you think you're doing?’

But no one did.

No one even looked at me.

I reached the stairwell door—couldn’t risk the elevator, too enclosed, too slow, too many chances for someone to see—and pushed through. The metal door closed behind me with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in my heightened state.

My breath came in gasps. The bag pulled heavy against my shoulder. Heavy with another woman's child. Heavy with my crime. Heavy with something that felt like both damnation and deliverance.

Three floors down. My footsteps echoed on the concrete steps. The air was cool, and yet I was sweating. At any moment I expected to hear shouting above me, feet thundering down the stairs, baby Greta’s mother screaming.

But there was only silence except for my ragged breathing and shoes scuffing against the steps.

Ground floor. I paused at the door, hand on the handle, terror flooding through me. This is it. This is where I get caught.

I pushed through anyway because I couldn't stop now. Couldn't go back. Could only go forward into whatever hell I was creating.

The lobby bustled with activity. Afternoon visiting hours meant families everywhere. Children holding balloons, teenagers texting, elderly couples moving slowly toward the exit. An information desk. A gift shop. A coffee stand.

Security guard by the door.

My heart stopped. He was going to know.

He held the automatic door open for me with a smile. “Have a good day, ma'am.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, and then I was outside in the humid August air with the sun beating down and traffic flowing past.

No alarms blaring.

No one chasing me.

I just... walked out.

My car was parked three blocks away on a side street. A deliberate choice to avoid parking garage cameras, attendants, and records of when I arrived and left.

I walked fast, but not too fast, trying to look normal even though normal people don't carry stolen babies in leather totes.

Every sound made me flinch. Every person who glanced my way felt like an informer.

But I made it. Three blocks that felt like three miles, and then I was at my car, the blue Honda Accord with Minnesota plates, and my hands were shaking so badly I dropped the keys twice before I managed to unlock the door.

I slid into the driver's seat, placed the bag carefully in the passenger seat, and just sat for a moment, gasping, my whole body trembling.

Oh god, what did I do?

I should go back. Put her in her bassinet and pretend this never happened and check myself into psychiatric care because clearly I'd lost my mind.

I couldn’t let myself think that way.

Because I couldn’t face going home with empty-arms, couldn’t tell my husband our daughter died, and couldn’t survive another loss.

“Piper,” I whispered, my vision blurred with tears, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. “Your name is Piper Ann now. You're coming home with Momma.”

Piper stirred and made a small sound. Not crying. Just... existing. My heart filled with contentment and love.

I smiled at my new daughter and then started the car, checked my mirrors, and merged into traffic.

I didn’t look back.

***

Excerpt from Daughter of Mine by Angie Stanton. Copyright 2026 by Angie Stanton. Reproduced with permission from Angie Stanton. All rights reserved.