“The last fucking time you saw him, he had nightmares for a week and wet the bed for a month. You are not going near him,” I grit out to her, trying to rein myself in, the memory of that time permanently burnt into my brain. I pull at my hair. The frustrations I feel just from hearing her fucking voice grate my insides like rubbing an open wound against rough cement.

“Fuck you, Dante. You can’t stop me from seeing my son!” she screams at me, sounding out of her mind.

“You're unfit to be a parent. I gave you chances, I sent you to rehab, and you didn’t comply,” I reply steadily.

“Fuck you and your need for obedience. He is my son!” I wish she felt this passionately about him while he watched her fuck numerous men.

“Don’t call me again until you have been clean for a year. Then we can talk,” I say before ending the call. I don’t want to be a monster, but nothing will harm my son, not even his own poor excuse for a mother.

I stand up abruptly from my desk and grab my coffee cup, throwing it against the wall. The cup smashes into a million tiny snowflake-like pieces as I seethe in anger. Running my hands through my hair, I take some deep breaths, trying to get myself under control. My eyes flick up to my door when I hear a tap.

“What?” I bark, not in the mood for visitors.

It’s my men, back from Ozone Park, where they grabbed all of Little Red’s things from her hotel. I watch two of them as they walk into my office, and I look down at their hands.

“That’s it?” I ask in question. She has a handbag and a small duffle bag. That can’t be right. I can’t believe that a woman such as Little Red would travel lightly. No woman does.

“That’s it, boss. We spoke with the clerk. She checked in an hour before she went for her run yesterday, so she hadn’t even fully unpacked.”

“Bring it to me.” I take a seat in one of my leather armchairs by the window. The duffle bag is cheap, and as he lays it on the floor, I lean over and unzip it.

I find three tops, two pairs of jeans, a few dresses, and underwear, all perfectly folded neatly in little piles. She has two pairs of shoes and her toiletries as well, but that’s it. Zipping it back up, I pass it back to them.

“Give it to Maria. She will know what to do.”

“This is her handbag, sir,” my other man says, giving me the fake black leather bag.