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He didn’t answer right away. The nib of the pen touched the crisp paper, and in one smooth, sweeping motion, a dark, elegant signature appeared across the blank line marked: FATHER.
The stranger calmly capped the fountain pen and slid it back inside his coat pocket, his deep gray eyes lifting to meet mine with an intensity that pinned me to the spot.
“My name is Luka Moretti,” he said smoothly. “And as of five seconds ago, your daughter has the absolute protection of the Moretti family name, which means your husband’s legal team cannot touch her, take her, or use her as leverage to strip you of your rights.”
Because Luka hadn’t walked onto the fourth floor of St. Jude’s Hospital by accident. He knew my name before I ever spoke a word to him, he knew my late father’s history, and he knew precisely which digital medical records had vanished from the hospital’s primary server less than forty-eight hours before my daughter was born.
He stepped closer, shielding my baby and me from the drafty hallway, and pulled a thick, string-bound manila folder from beneath his arm. On the front of the worn paper, stamped in bold red ink, were two letters and a number: FILE M-17.
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