THE SEATS ACROSS THE AISLE

Blood on the snow was a familiar sight to a man like Roman. No ambush, no bullet, no betrayal in the back rooms of Chicago should have been able to surprise him anymore.

Nothing, however, had prepared him for row 2 of a commercial flight on Christmas Eve.

He boarded the plane furious. His private jet had been grounded by the storm, one of his lieutenants was bleeding out in a Colorado hospital, and a retaliatory hit was waiting for his authorization.

Then he looked across the aisle and saw his ex-wife.

Norah.

The woman who had vanished from his life 12 months earlier.

And in her arms were 2 identical infants.

The storm had hit New York like a backhand. Whiteout conditions buried the airport, freezing rain coated the runways, and a wind chill cut through Roman’s cashmere overcoat as though it were wet paper.

He hated snow.

Snow slowed everything down.

He stood before the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows of JFK’s Terminal 4, watching a baggage cart spin its tires helplessly on the ice. A paper cup of black coffee cooled in his right hand. His jaw was clenched hard enough to hurt.

“Tell me again.”

He did not look behind him.

He did not need to.

He could hear Carlo shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

“The FAA grounded everything under 50,000 pounds, boss. Private aviation is completely locked down. The deicing trucks can’t even get to the hangar. They’re telling us tomorrow afternoon. Earliest.”

Roman crushed the paper cup.

Warm coffee spilled across his knuckles.

He did not react.

He dropped the mangled cardboard into a trash can and wiped his hand on a monogrammed handkerchief.

Tomorrow afternoon was unacceptable.

By then, the Irish crew moving against his Denver territory could have secured the shipping routes. One of Roman’s lieutenants was already in a Colorado hospital after being shot. If Roman did not reach Denver before midnight and authorize retaliation, the family would look weak.

In his world, weakness was the only unforgivable sin.

“Get me on a commercial flight.”

Carlo nearly choked.

“Commercial? Boss, it’s Christmas Eve. The terminals are a zoo. We have a federal tail on us, and half the flights are canceled anyway. You want to walk through TSA?”

Roman finally turned.

His dark eyes contained nothing resembling holiday cheer.

“I want to be in Denver before the clock strikes 12. I don’t care if you have to buy the airline. I don’t care if I have to sit in the cargo hold with the dogs. Put me on a plane.”

20 minutes later, Roman was walking down the jet bridge for Flight 409 to Denver.

He had paid $5,000 in cash to a frantic businessman in the boarding area for his first-class ticket. The man had taken 1 look at Roman’s tailored suit, the scars across his knuckles, and the silent, imposing figures of Carlo and 2 other men standing behind him and accepted the money without argument.

Roman left his men behind.

They would fly the next day.

He had to go alone.

The jet bridge smelled of wet wool, stale pretzel salt, and aviation fuel. Roman ducked slightly as he stepped through the aircraft door.

He hated every part of it.

His life was normally insulated by wealth and fear. He did not stand in lines. He did not share armrests. He controlled his surroundings with a ruthless, suffocating precision.

Now he was trapped inside a metal tube at the mercy of a tired pilot and a winter storm.

Row 2.

Seat A.

Window.

Roman shoved his leather duffel into the overhead bin and slammed it closed harder than necessary.

The flight attendant near the front of the cabin startled. Her rehearsed holiday smile faltered when she looked at him.

Roman ignored her.

He sat, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and braced his knees against the seat in front of him.

He needed a drink.

He needed a cigarette.

He needed to put a bullet into the man who had shot his lieutenant.

“Excuse me.”

The voice came from across the aisle.

Soft.

Slightly breathless.

Roman kept his eyes closed. He had no interest in talking to a corporate executive or wealthy holiday traveler.

“I’m sorry. I just need to get past. Thank you.”

The cadence of the voice reached him before the meaning did.

The small nervous hesitation at the end.

Roman’s eyes opened.

Blood roared through his ears like a freight train inside a tunnel.

He turned his head slowly, as though some part of his body understood the shock before his mind did.

Across the narrow aisle, in row 2, seats C and D, a woman struggled to settle herself.

A cheap-looking diaper bag hung heavily from 1 shoulder. Her chestnut curls, once familiar enough for Roman to recognize by touch, were twisted into a messy knot. An oversized gray sweater hung loosely from her frame, worn at the cuffs.

Norah.

His wife.

His ex-wife.

The woman who had walked out of their penthouse 12 months earlier while Roman dealt with a police raid at the docks.

She left no note.

No forwarding address.

No trace.

She simply disappeared.

Roman spent nearly $500,000 trying to find her. He tore through Chicago and New York. He questioned friends. He interrogated people who might have known something. He burned relationships and threatened men who swore they had never seen her.

Nothing.

Now she was standing across the aisle from him on a commercial flight on Christmas Eve.

Roman’s hands closed around the armrests until his knuckles turned white.

The rage that had simmered inside him all day surged toward violence.

He opened his mouth, ready to demand answers.

Then Norah turned.

A baby was strapped to her chest in a gray fabric carrier.

Small.

Red-faced.

Sleeping against the frantic pounding of her heart.

Roman stopped.

Before he could comprehend the infant against her body, Norah bent toward a portable car seat beside her and lifted a second baby wrapped in a yellow knitted blanket.

Identical features.