Chapter 7: Careful, Elena

Three days after the ultrasound, a courier brought a thick envelope to the deli.

It came from the general counsel of Kovalev Group.

Inside was a confidentiality release, ten pages long.

It said I would never speak about my pregnancy or the child's father, in any forum, to any person.

It said I waived any claim against the company and its founder.

On the last page, in neat blocks, was a figure with seven digits.

I read it standing at the counter, with a customer waiting for his salami.

"What is it?" Nonna asked.

"A price," I said.

I took the first bus into the city that afternoon.

The penthouse sat on Central Park South, forty-four floors above the trees.

I had been in it once, the night of the Singapore deal.

I had not been able to look at its elevator since.

The doorman recognized me and let me up without calling.

I think he was afraid not to.

Maxim opened the door in shirtsleeves, with his tie pulled off and his collar open.

He stared at me.

I held up the envelope.

"You can keep your seven digits," I said. "I'm not a line item."

"I didn't send that."

"Your counsel did."

"Then I'm going to fire him." He said it flatly. "Come in. Please."

I walked past him into the living room.

It was exactly as I remembered, pale stone and black glass and the whole city lit up beyond the windows.

On the coffee table stood a half-eaten sandwich and a tablet, open to a picture of a baby's ultrasound.

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