I pat his chest. “Don’t sweat it …”
Showing myself out before anything gets any weirder between us, I trek home—replaying that innocent but awkward little peck in my head a few times. There’s no way he thought I was going in for a kiss. We weren’t flirting. We weren’t talking about anything remotely romantic. Nothing about our exchange would’ve remotely implied that I wanted to kiss him …
Did he do that on purpose?
But he seemed embarrassed …
Kicking off my shoes, I leave my ear buds on the foyer table and attempt to work for the next two hours so I don’t have to think about what just happened.
I’m two minutes from logging off when an email pings my inbox from my contact at the DNA site. I’d overnighted Fabian’s sample last week and sent the loveliest email to her, asking if she could expedite the processing. Normally I wouldn’t ask for favors, but since he’s only here a short time, I wanted to see if I couldn’t speed things up.
I click on the subject line.
Dear Rossi—
As requested, I was able to rush the processing of your friend’s submission. For privacy purposes, I’ve entered him into the system as USER82765. You can access his results via your account when you’re ready.
Best of luck!
Caitlyn Morrow
Founder and CEO of AncestryFinder
* * *
These kinds of emails are the “Christmas morning” part of my job. The rush of excitement. The promise of what’s inside. The mystery. I live for these emails and they never get old.
Logging into my account, I pull up Fabian’s information and feast my eyes on all of the connections that propagate the page. There must be at least twenty-five 2nd-3rd cousins and fifty 4-5th cousins. An excellent start.
For the hour that follows, I copy and paste the same message to every last one of his genetic connections. It’s a spammy shot in the dark, but this is always step one.
Hello!
My name is Rossi Bianco, and I’m a genealogist in High Valley, Illinois. I’m currently searching for Francesca Catalano on behalf of a private client who has been matched to your genetic profile. If you have any information as to how or where I could find Francesca (who also goes by the name Frankie), that would be greatly appreciated.
Respectfully,
Rossi Bianco, BCG
Bianco Genealogy
Logging out, I shut my laptop and call it a day.
And what a day it has been …
Chapter 28
Fabian
* * *
It’s been over twenty-four hours since I last spoke to Rossi. Despite the two thousand miles that separate us, she’s been dancing circles in my head since the second my jet went wheels-up over Chicago.
Lying in bed, I pull up my phone and tap out a text: LANDING TOMORROW MORNING … CAN’T WAIT TO SEE MY GIRLS.
I hit send and watch the read receipt stay on ‘read’ for the following hour.
Sitting up, I fling the covers off and pace my room. A room that’s ridiculously, laughably large. One fit for royalty or Silicon Valley billionaires who ran out of stupid shit to blow their money on. This entire house is ostentatious and showy, the kind of thing a man buys when his ego is so gaping and empty he needs to shove something inside it to feel something.
The pool below reflects the moon above, and beyond that the ocean tide rolls gentle. It’s a multi-million dollar view, no question. Four years ago I got into a nasty bidding war over this property. It was one of the only beachfront estates with room for a full tennis court. Ended up paying twenty percent more than what it was worth, but with the market the way it is lately, I could sell it for a lot more than that.
Regardless, what good is a man’s money if he has no one to spend it on?
A man could shove his soul full of thousand dollar bills and still feel that gnawing emptiness at the end of the day.
I make a mental note to call my attorneys tomorrow and have them draft up a new will. Everything I own, everything I’ll ever own—I want it to go to my daughter when I’m gone. And if the child Tatum is carrying turns out to be mine, they’ll get their share as well.
Still, all the money in the world couldn’t buy me the one thing I want—Rossi.
Pulling up her number, I press the green button. With the first ring, my heart hammers in my ears, whooshing with adrenaline and anticipation. With the second ring, I bite my thumbnail. With the third, I hold my breath. After the fourth, I’m met with her voice—but not her.
“Hi,” her greeting says. “You’ve reached Rossi Bianco with Bianco Genealogy. Please leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”
It’s eleven o’clock here, which means it’s 1 AM there. She’s probably sleeping, which means at least she isn’t blatantly ignoring me.
Head pressed against the window, I wait for the beep.
“Rossi, it’s me,” I say. “Just wanted to hear your voice … guess I’ll settle for your voicemail.” I chuckle. “Anyway, I miss you. I’ve been running around here like crazy the last couple of days, but I haven’t stopped thinking about you once. And all the things you said on Sunday. I know you’re scared, Rossi. But we can take this slow. And the stuff with Tatum—that’s not going to change anything. I know I probably sound like a broken record and I’m not telling you anything I haven’t already told you … but maybe it wouldn’t hurt for you to hear it again.” I laugh through my nose—I’ve never done the whole lovesick puppy thing. I’ve never had to beg or grovel or prove that I was worthy to be the apple of anyone’s eye. “First time I ever saw you, I forgot to breathe. Second time we met, I realized you were a woman who didn’t need me, didn’t want a damn thing from me, and not only that, but you were genuine and honest. You weren’t trying to impress me, but you did it anyway. Without even trying. And your lips, Rossi … I live for those lips, the way they turn bright pink and swollen when I kiss you. And watching you with Lucia …” I gather a breath. “Couldn’t ask for a better mother. Your love for—”
“If you’d like to hear your message, please press one,” an automated voice cuts me off.
God damn it.
I hang up, pray it went through, and hit the sheets.
I’ve got an early flight to catch, and the sooner I close my eyes, the sooner I’ll see my girls.
I settle into my seat on my jet Wednesday morning when my publicist calls.
“Fabian, I’m so glad you answered.” She’s breathless and her voice echoes.
“Take me off speaker, Phoebe. You know I fucking hate that shit.”
Two seconds later, she says, “Fine. Better?”
“What’s going on? We’re about to take off.”
“So there are these pictures that are going out in the next couple of days. Someone’s been shopping them around,” she says.
“Yes, the one of Tatum and I at LaGrange. We already discussed this yesterday, and —”
“—no,” she interrupts. “These are different pictures. Nothing to do with Tatum.”
I can’t imagine what other pictures someone would have of me that would put me in any sort of scandalous positions, but I hear her out.
“So it’s you and a baby,” she says.
With those six words, my blood turns to ice, cracking in my veins. “The fuck are you talking about, Phoebe?”
“There’s some woman in Illinois claiming you’re the father of her baby girl,” she says. “She’s got pictures of the two of you together, and Fabian, before you say anything, they aren’t photoshopped. I had my guy verify that. Also this baby is the spitting image of you. Two secs and I’ll forward the screenshots to you.”
Jaw clenched, I wait for my phone to vibrate, and then I check the images.
Sure enough, they’re the ones Rossi took of Lucia and me last week—after I made her swear on her life she’d never share them.
“Fabian, you still with me?” Phoebe asks.
“Mr. Catalano, we’ll be taki
ng off momentarily.” My flight attendant delivers a flute of organic orange juice and Cristal along with an egg white omelet destined to go cold because I’m about to be sick.
“There’s been a lot of interest in these pics,” Phoebe continues. “All the magazines want it. I heard one of them wants to run a cover story with some headline about your secret love child. Please tell me this is a niece or something?”
I wish I could.
“You’ve been in Chicago the last couple of weeks—this woman is from Chicago,” she says, spacing out her words as if she’s piecing it all together. “Please tell me you didn’t get pussy whipped by some Midwestern con-artist …”
Leaning back, I pinch my nose and breathe out.
“I’m going to need some kind of statement,” she says. “So you’re going to have to give me something to work with. How are you involved with this woman and this baby?”
While Phoebe is an utmost professional, heads one of the top publicist firms in the world, and signed an ironclad NDA, I wasn’t exactly prepared to have to share this with her.
Or anyone.
Ever.
“They’re trying to get her to do an interview,” Phoebe adds. “But so far it’s just pictures. Which actually is kind of worse because then the articles can say whatever they want and they’re going to print shock value shit, whatever’s going to move more copies.”
My head throbs as my jet taxies to the runway.
“You need to make a decision, Fabian.” She breathes into the phone. “Sounds like they’re pushing seven-figure offers and it’s only a matter of time before this hits newsstands. I can deny this of course. And I can see if we can’t delay it a bit to buy more time. We need a statement at the very least.”
“Give me a few hours to think about this.”
“So it’s true—this is the woman you’ve been hanging out with all month? Jesus, Fabian.”
“I’ll call you when I land.”
The plan lunges forward, faster and faster until the nose tips up. Within seconds we’re airborne, en route to Chicago.
I don’t understand why Rossi would do this …
If she were anyone else, it would make sense. This would be a phenomenal way to exact revenge on me—but the woman I’ve come to know would never jeopardize her child’s privacy for petty retaliation and some quick cash.
Still, Rossi took those photos.
She was the only one with access to them.
And now they’re being shopped around the biggest tabloid magazines in the country.
I don’t want to believe …
But if it wasn’t her, then who was it?
Chapter 29
Rossi
* * *
I’m halfway through my to-do list for the afternoon when an email notification pops up—a reply from one of the many Catalano cousins I’d contacted yesterday. I must have sent close to one hundred messages, but so far I’ve had four responses—none of whom know the whereabouts of Francesca Catalano.
Rossi—
Saw your message. Frankie is a third cousin of mine. We lost touch years ago, but last I heard she occasionally keeps in touch with another cousin of ours. Was able to get the last known number and address for Frankie, but sounds like no one’s talked to her in years. Hope this helps and good luck with your search!
Maureen Catalano
I scroll beneath her message to find an Iowa address and phone number. A quick Google search tells me she’s only two hours from here. Despite everything going on with Fabian, I can’t wait to give him this information.
The front door opens and closes—likely Carina grabbing a package from the Prime delivery man who usually comes this time of day. But I stay planted in front of my computer, seeing if I can’t dig up anything else connected to that name and number. A reverse number search tells me it’s a prepaid cell number, and a quick search on an assessor’s site tells me the house is registered to A-Plus Rentals, Inc.
There’s no guarantee we’ll find her at the end of this rainbow, but my fingers are crossed.
Three raps at the door pull me out of my frenzy.
“Come in,” I call to my sister, clicking on the next result.
Only it isn’t my sister standing in the doorway—it’s Fabian.
“Oh.” I sit back. “Hi. I didn’t know you were here.”
He closes the door behind him, but stays on that side of the room. Worry lines spread across his forehead, and his eyes are squinted, pinched almost. Nothing about this suggests he’s happy to see me, which is odd because he left me a rambling two-minute voicemail last night that indicated he couldn’t wait to see me again.
While I’d never admit this to anyone, I must have listened to that thing fifty times—mostly because I was convinced if I listened closely enough, I’d be able to tell if he was being sincere or not. Unfortunately, it turns out I’m not a human lie detector and results were inconclusive.
“Just got here,” he says. His eyes are darker than usual and his hands are hooked on his narrow hips.
“I got your message,” I say. “But it’s been a crazy morning. Carina had to run to a dentist appointment, so I had Lucia and it’s just been one thing after another since my feet hit the ground … anyway, you actually have perfect timing.”
I tear the paper with Frankie’s info from my notebook, only before I get the chance to hand it over, he lifts a palm to silence me and stop me in my tracks.
“Rossi,” he says. The indentation above his jaw divots, pulsing in and out, and the faint bulge of a vein across his forehead forms.
“Y … yes?”
His nostrils flare and his eyes flash. “How could you?”
“What?”
“You sold her out,” he says. “You sold us out.”
Rising, I fold my arms. “Care to elaborate? Because I’m really confused …”
“I honestly thought you were different.” He shakes his head, digging into his back pocket to produce his phone. A few swipes later and he turns it to face me. An image of Fabian with Lucia fills the screen—one of the fifteen images I took last week when it was just the three of us.
“How … what … okay, this makes no sense.” I cover my mouth with my hand, breathing in through my fingers. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either,” he says with a cruel huff before shoving the phone away. “What’d you get for those, huh? Heard offers were hitting seven figures.”
Despite the fact that this situation is hardly hilarious, I manage a laugh. “Seven figures?”
“Is that all this was worth to you?”
“Wait, someone is selling that image for a million dollars?” I point. “Can … can you do that?”
He drags a hand through his hair, which is already mussed from his flight, and groans. “You can drop the act, Rossi. I know it was you.”
“It absolutely was not me.” I march across the room, invading his space, hands on my hips. “I would never.”
“Then explain how that image went from your phone and into the hands of tabloids all over the country,” he says.
“I can’t explain it.” I toss my hands in the air the way my father does when he’s trying to fix a sink leak and keeps dropping the wrench. “Maybe I got hacked?”
“Really? Some random person just happened to randomly hack into your phone, go through your pictures, find these specific images, lift them, then—”
“—yes!” I yell. “That’s exactly what I’m saying because there’s no other explanation. Why would I jeopardize my daughter’s privacy?”
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself all day.”’
“I didn’t do this, Fabian.” I step closer to him.
He steps away. “I was going to ask you to move in with me. You and Lucia. Because you’re the one that I want, Rossi. And maybe we were moving too fast, but I wanted to see where this would lead. And you were right. Jetting back and forth, it isn’t realistic. But I was prepared to do whatever it took to make
it work … and then you pulled this. You betrayed my trust—you used me.”
“I didn’t pull anything.” I run my fingers through my hair and tug a fistful. “And I never used you, Fabian. I certainly didn’t sell you out. I don’t know how this happened, but I swear to you, it wasn’t me.”
Swiping my phone off my desk, I pull up my settings.
“All of my images are backed up to my iCloud, which is connected to my Apple ID. My password is encrypted and I have two-factor on everything.” Pulling up my iCloud, I whiz through a few menu items before pulling up log-in and user activity. “Look at my most recent log ins. They’ve all been here, same IP address. No one’s accessed my phone except for me. And I didn’t send those pictures.”
“Who else has access to your phone during the day?” he asks.
I begin to answer, then stop.
“If you’re suggesting my sister did this, you’re out of your mind. She would never.”
“How are you so sure?” he asks. “If it wasn’t you and she’s the only one who had access to your phone …”
I take a seat on the edge of my desk. There’s no way Carina would do something like that. She’s my sister. My best friend. Family. Lucia’s the closest thing to a daughter she’ll ever have. She wouldn’t throw all of us under the bus for five minutes of fame.
“I’ll ask her.” I keep my voice low. “But I’m one hundred percent sure she wouldn’t do that.”
He points to the door. “What are you waiting for?”
Condescension colors his voice.
Fabian has never used that tone with me.
“She’s watching the baby right now—I’m not going to bother her with this,” I return the favor, snipping my words at him just the same.
Chin tucked, he rubs his eyes with his thumb and index finger, chest filling with hard, heavy breaths.
“My daughter’s image is going to be plastered all over social media and every news outlet this time tomorrow,” he says. “So unless you come clean about this—and put a stop to it immediately—”
The Match: A Baby Daddy Donor Romance Page 18
