Chapter 17

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

Anya

A baby’s cry carries on the night, reaching my ears with the breeze that blows through the bedroom window. I rub my eyes and focus to clear the cobwebs of sleep from my mind.

Goosebumps prickle over my arms while I shiver in my satin nightdress. The bedcovers are tangled around my feet. Nothing but a thin sheet covers me.

It’s cold.

The moon shines like a beacon in the sky, illuminating the room and creating shadows in the corners.

Who opened the window?

I reach for Saverio next to me, but my palm brushes over the cool cotton of a pillowcase. Pushing up on one elbow, I frown as I look down. The pillow is fluffy and uncreased. Unused. His place is empty.

I sit up, my skin contracting from the bite of frost in the air.

“Saverio?”

The baby cries again, the sound coming from the nursery.

I turn my face toward the door. It’s ajar, a wedge of soft lamplight spilling through the crack. A mobile plays softly in the background, the tune familiar but the notes like music from a fairground.

I swing my legs over the bed and stand.

The crying turns louder.

“Mommy’s coming, sweetheart.”

I grab a robe from the chair and pull it on as I rush on bare feet to the far side of the room. The curtains billow in the gust of icy wind that barrels through the windows. I push them closed and hook the latch in place before hurrying to the nursery while tying the belt of the robe around my waist.

The cries become quieter, turning into unhappy sniffling. I enter the nursery with the yellow walls and the colorful stuffed animals on the bookshelves. Shadows from the rotating dolphin nightlight creep along the walls. The curtains are open, letting in a shard of moonlight that pierces the crib. The baby is quiet now, but the merry-go-round notes of the mobile are distorted and plays out of tune.

“Mommy’s here, darling,” I coo, reaching for the baby, but when I pull back the soft, white blanket, the crib is empty.

A piercing scream fills my ears. I slam my palms over them to block out the noise, but the horrifying sound that’s sharper than glass comes from inside me.

“My baby,” I yell .

I scream and scream until my voice goes hoarse and it feels as if my lungs are tearing inside my chest.

I jackknife into a sitting position. Cold sweat runs down my back while tremors rack my body.

Bewildered, I look around.

I’m in bed. I check my phone. It’s two in the morning. The place next to me is empty.

Looking at the window, I blink. The curtains are drawn. It’s warm in the room.

I had a nightmare.

The events of the evening slowly come back. We got engaged. The reason for the horrible dream and the dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach is what Rachele told me in the bathroom.

I was so emotionally and physically wrought out when we got home that I got into bed and crashed. The last thing I remember is Saverio pulling the covers over me.

“Saverio?”

Concern gnaws at me. I get up and go to the dressing room where I pull one of his oversized hoodies on over my pajamas, and then I pad barefoot down the stairs.

The house is dark.

In the light that shines from the patio, I make out the figures of the guards who are doing night patrol. A red button blinks on the alarm panel. I disarm the alarm and take my keys from the bowl on the entrance table to unlock the door. The guard jumps at attention when I open it.

“Ms. Brennan,” he says with surprise. “Is everything all right?”

“Where’s Saverio?”

“Out on business.”

Business. That can only mean one thing. Nerves draw my stomach tight. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No, ma’am. ”

“Can I call him?”

He hesitates. “It’s probably not a good idea.”

The answer speaks volumes. “Thanks.” I hook my hair behind my ear. “Can I get you anything? Coffee or tea?”

“We have everything we need, but thank you for the offer,” he says with a polite smile.

I nod and close the door before locking it and setting the alarm again.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I stand there, not sure what to do or where to go. My heart thumps in my ribcage, each beat hurting physically.

On impulse, I go to the kitchen and make a cup of herbal tea. I carry it back to the lounge and pace in front of the dark windows until the untouched infusion is cold and the time on the alarm screen shows it’s three in the morning.

Where the hell is he?

I pace some more, and when I can no longer stand the tension, I wander aimlessly through the house. It’s the worst kind of worry not knowing where Saverio is and if he’s in danger. I imagine a million awful scenarios until I feel so sick that I have to sit down.

Instead of staying in the cold, empty lounge, I walk to his study, flick on the light, and pause in the door. The furniture is dark and heavy like everywhere else in the house, but his signature scent lingers in the space. The smell is the most intoxicating cocktail of spicy cologne and masculine strength. From the way my feet move forward with a magnetic pull while my body begs to be wrapped up and drowned in that smell, I swear there’s pheromones in the air.

I’ve only been inside here briefly when I explored the house, but a need to be comforted by Saverio’s presence, even though it’s just a ghost of his scent, lures me deeper into the room. I’ve never seen an actual study before. Not even Livy, who’s wealthy in her own right, has a study. Of course, I’ve seen pictures and movies. Saverio’s study is very similar in design and layout to the ones in magazines. Shelves full of books line the walls. A big desk stands at the far end under a painting of another stranger’s ancestor in a Russian costume that dates from the sixteenth century. A ruby-red rug covers most of the hardwood floor. Oxblood sofas frame a coffee table in front of the fireplace. The leather seat of the swivel chair behind the desk is cracked and worn. It looks old.

Going over, I lower myself in the seat and close my eyes as I inhale the perfume of wax, leather, and Saverio. I smooth my palms over the padded armrests, imagining Saverio’s skin.

Where are you, Saverio?

I’m going out of my mind with worry.

His men would’ve called if something bad happened.

Right?

I swivel the chair from left to right and open my eyes to inspect the contents of the desk. A sliver of guilt for invading his private space pierces my conscience, but I ignore the uncomfortable feeling. I need to feel close to him. Unlike in the magazine pictures I’ve seen, no photo frames with portraits of family or friends stand on Saverio’s desk. Files are neatly piled in one plastic tray while documents are stacked in another. A pen is lined up next to a writing pad.

Tears jump to my eyes.

Shit.

I only saw his handwriting a couple of times when he sent me silly notes with groceries and a tomato bouquet. And suddenly, I have an overwhelming desire to see that distinct scrawl on paper. Handwriting is personal. Studying someone’s handwriting is like getting a glimpse of his soul. I remember vividly how I felt when I read those notes. At the time, I didn’t realize why warmth had spread through my chest. Now, I recognize the sentiment for what it was. It was as if he’d given me a piece of himself. It made me feel close to him.

I flip through a few pages of the writing pad, but they’re clean. I bend down and pull the trashcan closer. There are a few balled-up pieces of paper inside. I fish one out and iron it flat on the desk. Just a few lines are scribbled over the page in Saverio’s handwriting. It’s a to-do list, each task marked off with a tick.

High chair with double safety system (and best support for the baby’s back)

Car seat—x2

Car—Volvo? Safety in accidents stats? (she likes blue)

Stroller (does Tersia still want to gift one??)

Breast pump

Bottles, electric warmer & sterilizer

There’s some doodling in the corner and three questions marks under which colors is written in capital letters.

Emotions clog up my throat. I trace the familiar curve of his letters with my forefinger, imagining his huge, tanned hand with the manly veins as he drags the pen over the paper to make sweet and considerate lists.

A fat teardrop rolls over my cheek and plops on the page, smudging the ink. As soon as the dam wall bursts, I cry in all earnest, sobbing until Saverio’s hoodie is soaked down the front.

Why? Why must you always hide things from me, Sav?

Why can’t you just do all these incredibly kind things without ulterior motives ?

I cry for Saverio and the children he’ll never have, and then I cry simply for him, willing him to come home.

Don’t you dare die, Saverio De Luca.

You’ll come home, do you hear me? You’ll come home so that I can confront you. You’re not leaving me with unanswered questions or without explaining yourself.

Where the fuck is he?

It takes a while before I calm myself and dry my eyes, not caring that I’m using the sleeve of his hoodie.

Shall I call Dante? Maybe he’ll know where Saverio is.

I look around for the time. The grandfather clock in the corner says it’s three-thirty. What if Dante is sleeping? If he’s not with Saverio, he’ll definitely be in bed.

I stretch out in the chair and lean my head on the backrest. When I can breathe without hiccupping, I fold the piece of paper neatly and slip it in the pocket of my pajama bottoms.

My gaze lands on the drawer. I reach for the knob.

No, I shouldn’t.

I want to pull back my hand, but it’s as if it has a life of its own. As in an outer body experience, I watch myself open the drawer until it’s balancing on the edge. Colored markers and pencils are neatly organized inside. An ink pad is pushed into the corner. An adjustable date stamp lies next to a piece of paper on which the stamp was tested. The dates are from a few years ago, five to be exact, the red ink bleeding into the white and fraying around the edges. Right at the back, a gold pen sticks out from under an envelope.

My breathing spikes. My hand trembles as I brush the envelope away and pick up the pen. It’s a luxury brand. Saverio’s name and a date are engraved in the gold. The date is also from five years ago, the tenth of July—his wedding date, I presume .

I put the pen aside and extract the envelope. My pulse picks up even more as I take out a couple of folded sheets and open them. Medical exam results. One word jumps out at me.

Azoospermia.

Beneath it is printed zero sperm count .

I lower the papers in my lap, my chest constricting as if a giant has wrapped his fist around my ribcage and is squeezing without letting up.

It’s exactly as Rachele said.

Oh, Saverio.

I rub a hand over my face. How could fate be so cruel to such a strong and virile man? If things were different, I have no doubt he would’ve had a child with Rachele by now—maybe two or even three—and she wouldn’t have been able to divorce him. Would it have been better for him though? You’d think he would’ve learned from his mistake to trap a woman in a loveless marriage. But this is how things are done in his world. He doesn’t know a different way.

I put the letter back in the envelope and leave it on the desk.

And then I wait.

I count the books on the shelves and divide the total by the number of shelves, and then I multiply that with the square root of the total. The exercises are futile and meaningless, but at least they occupy my mind and prevent me from going completely crazy.

It’s four o’clock when the beep of the alarm finally sounds.

A gush of air leaves my lips.

Please God, let it be him.

A key scrapes in the lock. The door opens and closes softly .

Silence.

The floorboards creak in the hallway, the sound moving closer to the light. A shadow falls over the threshold, bleeding through the open door, and a second later, Saverio looms in the door frame, looking larger than life itself.

My relief is so great a silent sob catches in my throat. The stress that’s been mounting for two hours crashes down on me, making me weak. I want to hit his chest with my fists and scream at him, but I remain perfectly calm as I study him for injuries.

He’s dressed in sweatpants and a black hoodie. His feet are bare. His hair is tussled, but otherwise, he looks as he does every other day. Strong. Untouchable.

At the sight of me, his pale eyes flare. The blue is like crystal that catches the light. No, they’re like the infinite depth of the turquoise sea that swallows all the light and reflects it from within.

“Why are you up?” A worry line divides his pinched eyebrows. “You should be in bed.”

I take a deep breath to keep my voice even. “Where have you been?”

His mouth pulls up in one corner. “Is this the kind of marriage we’re going to have? Every time I come home late, you’re going to ask where I’ve been?”

“Did Rachele know where you were?”

His mask drops in place. “She didn’t ask.” He advances to the desk. “She knew better than that.”

“I was worried sick about you. I thought that maybe—” I can’t even say it. “That maybe you won’t come home.”

“Anya,” he says softly, coming around the desk and turning the chair so that I face him before cupping my cheeks between his large hands. “You shouldn’t think like that.”

His warmth sinks into my skin, but the ice around my heart refuses to melt. “Then tell me where you’ve been.”

He purses his lips as a look of frustration comes over his features.

“If you woke up in the early morning hours and found my place next to you in bed empty, would you worry?” I ask.

He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him short.

“We both know the answer to that. You’d barge into the kitchen with a gun in your hands.”

“It’s not the same,” he says in a gruff voice. “I can take care of myself.”

“If you waited for me from two in the morning, not knowing where I was or what I was doing, how would you feel?”

A spectrum of emotions runs through his eyes, going from panicked to flat-out murderous.

“I guess you’ll never know how it feels because you won’t allow that, will you, Saverio?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw as he only watches me.

“Thought so,” I say.

He lets me go with a sound of agitation, hesitating as he stares at me. A battle rages in his eyes, but then he mumbles a curse and says, “I’ve been to see Kearney.”

My palms turn clammy. “What happened?”

“Things went south.” He holds my gaze for a moment longer. “Giorgio killed him.”

Dear God, no.

I slam a hand over my mouth, pushing back the sound that wants to escape.

“It took time to clean things up,” he continues .

“Saverio.” It hurts to speak through the knot in my throat. “You promised me.”

“I didn’t see Giorgio coming.”

“Fuck,” I say, wiping a trembling hand over my brow. “He’s dead because of me.”

Saverio takes my hand and pulls it away from my face. “No.” His voice is harsh. “You will not think like that.”

“It’s true though. Look me in the eyes and tell me it isn’t.”

The set of his mouth turns hard, but at least he doesn’t lie to me.

Fresh tears burn at the back of my eyes. “How am I supposed to live with myself?”

Saverio rubs his thumb over the back of my hand. “If he was an honorable man, this wouldn’t have been his fate.”

“Don’t patronize me.” I pull free from his grasp. “Unlike you, I don’t pretend to be God. It’s not our job to judge and to execute. Besides, you shouldn’t throw stones when you live in a glass house.”

“Fine,” he says, his nostrils flaring. “Killing him wasn’t the plan, but it happened. That’s the kind of business I’m in. Guilt comes with the job. I’d much rather carry that burden for you.”

“It’s mine to carry now.” I study him with a solemn gaze. “That’s what a life with you means.”

“You don’t have to,” he says in a beseeching way, his infinite-blue gaze pleading with me.

Maybe that’s why Rachele didn’t ask. Maybe she’s wiser than me, but I can’t turn a blind eye.

“Don’t ask me to be ignorant.” I shake my head. “I can’t do that.”

He doesn’t seem pleased, but he relents with a tight nod, accepting my boundaries .

I don’t know how to process what happened. It will hit me harder later when I’m alone. That’s how it always works. I’ll have to find a way to live with myself, and it’s not going to happen overnight, but for now, I have another concern.

“What if you get arrested?” I ask.

I don’t think too hard about what kind of a person that makes me to be more worried about Saverio than the man they killed.

“I won’t,” Saverio says in a level voice, watching me with an equally level gaze.

“How can you be so sure?”

A beat passes in which I swear the air turns more stifling.

“Saverio?”

He stands like a god in front of me, unapologetic and invincible. “If the police question us, you’ll say I was here all night.”

The breath leaves my lungs as if he’s punched a fist into my gut. “You’re asking me to be your alibi.” My mouth twists with the effort of holding back my tears. “Again.”

“Yes, again.” He adds without blinking, making it sound like a warning, “And I’m not asking.”

My smile is bitter. Quoting him, I say, “So that’s how our marriage is going to be.”

He leans forward, twisting my hair around one hand and placing the other on the desk. “That’s what it means to be with a made man, tesoro .”

He’s about to say more, but then he frowns. Turning his face sideways, he looks at where his palm covers half of the envelope.

The line between his eyebrows deepens as he lets me go and straightens slowly before snatching up the envelope. Apprehension washes into his eyes as he flips back the flap and pulls out the folded sheets of paper, and then his brow smooths out as understanding mixed with surprise replaces his frown.

“Rachele told me,” I say before he can ask. “She even remembered where you kept it.”

He schools his features before sliding the papers back into the envelope. When he meets my gaze again, his expression is blank.

“Is that why you want to adopt my baby?” I ask with that small smile on my lips.

His answer carries no emotion. “Yes.”

Yet it slices like a knife through me. “I see.” I nod again. “That’s why you’re arm-wrestling me into this marriage. It’s not just about proving to Luigi that I’m loyal to you, is it, Saverio? It’s about taking something you want more than anything, something you’ll never have.”

Anger contorts his beautiful features. It’s a scary sight, but I don’t cower.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” I challenge.

He throws the envelope aside with a careless flick of his wrist as if its contents carry no weight whatsoever. He doesn’t even look at where it lands on the desk. Every ounce of his attention is focused on me as he flattens his palms on the armrests of the chair, caging me in between his arms, and says in a low voice, “It doesn’t change a single thing. You’re still mine, and I’m still marrying you.” Splaying the fingers of one hand over my jaw, he continues in no uncertain terms, “I will never let you go, Anya, not even if the whole damn world comes to an end.”

And then he crashes his mouth on mine, cutting my lips with his teeth and sucking the oxygen from my lungs. The kiss is desperate and depraved as well as dominant and unyielding. He’s showing me who holds the power and who makes the decisions. But even while he kisses me so brutally that I have to submit to his violent caress or risk breaking under my resistance, I make an oath to myself.

Whatever happens, I won’t give him my baby.

It’s the one choice I won’t allow him to take from my hands. I don’t care what price I have to pay.

He doubles his onslaught, holding me in place with his fingers digging into my cheeks while softening the kiss until his tongue strokes mine and awakens nerve endings under my skin. At the possessive lick along the seam of my lips, my nipples harden under my clothes. All I can focus on is how relieved I am that he’s alive and on the hand he slips under my clothes to cup my breast. He groans into the kiss as he rolls my extended nipple between his fingers, deftly working it into an even harder point.

I push everything else aside, choosing to feel only the physical in this moment so that I can forget what happened and find the illusion of peace in his embrace. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him to me while ravishing his lips in return, giving myself wholeheartedly over to the kiss.

He pulls his hand from under my top and lets go of my face to hook his fingers underneath my thighs. With a firm tug, he pulls me to the edge of the seat and steps between my legs. When I stroke my palms up his sides and lean in to kiss the bulge tenting his sweatpants, he snaps.

His movements become jerky as he lifts my arms and pulls the hoodie over my head. My pajama top follows next. He pauses to look at my breasts before ripping his own hoodie over his head, exposing his powerful, naked torso.

In one swift movement, he lifts me from the chair onto the desk. I spread my legs, making space for him, and he doesn’t hesitate. He steps between them and dives for my mouth even as he fastens both hands on my ass and grinds his hard-on against the center of my thighs. I wrap my legs around him and deepen the kiss while smoothing my palms over the broad expanse of his rock-hard back.

He yanks impatiently at the elastic of my pajama bottoms when I brush my fingers over something wet on his skin.

I still.

Feeling my hesitation, he chases after me with more determination, kissing me with fiercer urgency and working harder to free my pants.

I push him away and lean back to bring my hand to my face.

My fingers are covered in red.

Blood.

His blood.

“Oh my God, Sav.”

He utters a frustrated groan and tries to seduce me into continuing what we started by kissing me again, but I keep him at bay.

“You’re bleeding,” I say, my heart pounding in my chest at the sight of his blood.

He pauses and glances at my fingers. Surprise washes over his face. Craning his neck to the side, he looks over his shoulder to inspect his back.

I unwrap my legs from around his waist and turn him with my hands on his hips. “Let me see.”

He allows me to position him at one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees.

A long, deep gash runs over the spot where his kidney is situated. Blood oozes from the wound and drips down his back.

“You’re cut,” I say, my voice breathless .

“Not by a knife.” Studying the injury, he says thoughtfully, “It must’ve been a rock.”

“A rock?” I exclaim.

He looks at me. “We had to swim along the shore for a while. It’s impossible to see the rocks in the dark. I didn’t even feel it.”

The blood must’ve soaked his hoodie without either of us noticing the red on the black fabric.

“You have to see a doctor,” I say, hopping from the desk and adjusting my pajama bottoms. “That cut needs stitches.”

I make to go around him, but he blocks my way.

“No doctors, treasure. You know why.”

“Someone you can trust then.” I huff, the worry taking its toll. “Surely, you must have a doctor on the team.”

He smiles as if he finds the comment amusing. “We don’t employ doctors or keep one on standby.”

“Nicole,” I say, my tone decisive. “She knows you.”

“I can’t implicate Nicole in my crimes.”

“For crying out loud, Saverio.” My concern transforms into irrational anger. “What about one of your men?”

Despite my agitation, his smile stretches. “I sent them home to rest. I don’t trust the two gorillas outside with a needle, at least not anywhere near my skin.”

“For a made man, you’re very inadequately prepared.”

He only laughs. “I survived before.”

“Well, one day it may really be serious, and then?—”

He places a finger on my lips. “Don’t jinx me.”

“Ugh. You’re impossible.” I pull away and prop my hands on my hips. “Where’s your medicine kit?”

“I keep one in the kitchen under the sink.”

“That’s good to know,” I mumble to myself as I pick up my pajama top from the floor and pull it over my head.

“I’ll rinse off in the shower,” he says. “It’s no big deal. ”

Pointing a finger at him, I say, “You’ll stay right there if you know what’s good for you.”

He grins as if the situation is funny, but at least he doesn’t argue.

In the kitchen, I scrub my hands in the sink before quickly finding the medicine box and carrying it back to the study.

Saverio is perched on an ottoman with his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers steepled, staring at the cold fireplace. The elastic of his sweatpants is tainted red, the sight making me queasy not because of the blood but because he’s hurt.

I make quick work of cleaning the area around the wound and disinfecting the cut before preparing a needle with surgical thread.

“Where’s your local anesthetic?” I ask, rummaging through the box.

“Don’t have any,” he says over his shoulder.

I look up. “How can you not have any?”

He shrugs and repeats, “Don’t have any.”

“If you have surgical thread, you obviously keep it because you needed it before.”

“I stitched Dante up a couple of times as well as a few guys who got nicked in fights. Never needed anesthetic.”

“Are you for real?” I ask, angry all over again. “Why don’t you keep any? Do you have to prove how tough you are?”

“What am I going to do? Rob a hospital or hijack an ambulance? If I want anesthetic, I’ll have to bribe a medical professional, and that’s not the kind of trail I want leading to me.”

Fine. I suppose that makes sense, but still, I don’t like hurting him more .

“It can wait until the morning,” he says in a compassionate tone.

My voice is stern. “Face forward.”

He turns but not before smirking.

Taking a deep breath, I keep a steady hand and stick the needle through his skin at the top of the cut. He doesn’t as much as hiss or jerk when I pull the thread through on the other side and make a knot. I continue until the gash is sealed, which takes no less than nine stitches. When I’m done, I dab antibiotic ointment on and cover the wound with gauze and a bandage.

“You may need an antibiotic,” I say, testing the hold of the bandage.

“If it gets infected, I’ll get some.”

“From where?” I ask. “You can’t buy it over the counter.”

“From a pharmacist who’s on our payroll.”

“So you can get antibiotics but not local anesthetic?”

“Anesthetics are more tightly controlled. It’s easier to swipe a few bottles of antibiotics from time to time.”

“What if you do need a doctor one day?”

“Then I’ll hope Dante is really good at following online tutorials.”

“You’re crazy.” I take out a bottle of painkillers and close the medicine box. “You need to recruit a doctor.”

I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “It doesn’t work like that, beautiful.”

I push two pills from their casings and fetch a glass of water from the wet bar. Going to stand in front of him, I hold out the pills and the water. “The next time we have an appointment with Nicole, I’m going to speak to her. She obviously knows what you do for a living. I’m not going to tell her anything new.”

“That’s very sweet of you, but you’ll be wasting your time.” He pops the pills in his mouth and drinks until the glass is empty. Staring up at me, he places a hand on my thigh. “I do, however, appreciate your concern.” He adds with a wink, “That must mean you care.”

“It’s not funny,” I chide.

“No, but I like it when you make a fuss over me.”

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I take the glass and put it on the coffee table. “We better get you to bed before those pills kick in.”

I’m turning for the door when he locks his fingers around my wrist and pulls me back to him.

I shoot him a questioning look.

His expression goes from teasing to serious. “Thank you, Anya.”

I consider him for a moment. The truth is I do care. Despite everything, it matters to me that nothing should ever happen to him. It matters very much.

“So this is how it’s going to be,” I say in a soft, sad tone. “You disappear on me for hours, and I’m beside myself with worry.”

He cups the back of my legs and brushes his thumbs along the seam of my ass. “It doesn’t have to be like this. I know how to handle myself. You don’t have to worry.”

“Then tell me where you’re going.”

He pulls me down onto his lap so that I’m straddling him, gazing into my eyes as he says in a gentle voice, “I can’t. It’s for your own safety.”

Not only because I may leak something to the cops but also because I may break and give up information that could get him killed if his enemies should torture me. Yes, I get that.

“At least wake me up before you leave,” I whisper.

His answer is to frame my face between his palms and to kiss me, but this time, I push him away .

“Why didn’t you tell me about the tests?” I ask.

He stabs his fingers into his hair. “What difference would it have made?”

All the difference. “Did you consider adopting?”

“It was the first suggestion I made. Rachele didn’t want to. She wanted to have her own babies.”

“What about artificial insemination?”

“It wouldn’t have been mine, and Rachele wanted to give her father what she called a legitimate heir and not a child she had with some stranger.”

“That’s harsh.”

“That’s how it works, tesoro . In our families, a heir is the most precious and most powerful gift. Blood is everything. In the end, that’s all that matters.”

“Is that what you want? A heir?”

“What I’ve always wanted was to be a father.” His chuckle is wry. “I suppose it’s to make up for the one I didn’t have when I grew from a boy into a man.”

“I’m sorry, Sav.” I place a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for everything you lost.”

“I knew Rachele didn’t love me, but I thought if I gave her everything, she’d learn to love me, or that, at the very least, she’d want to stay.” His laugh is ugly. “I couldn’t give her everything, could I?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No.” His voice is harsh. “It’s a defect.”

“It doesn’t make you less worthy.”

“It makes me less of everything.” He skims his knuckles over my cheek. “But you won’t understand that, sweetness. You weren’t raised in our world.”

“Maybe not, and maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t understand everything. However, you didn’t grow up in my world, Saverio. You have no idea what I’ll do to protect my baby. You may think you know me, but you haven’t even scratched the surface. I’m truly sorry for your pain. I know it’s not easy. But you can’t have my child to replace the one you won’t have. Using me like that isn’t only cruel but also unfair to me and to my baby. I’ll never sign the adoption papers.” I get off his lap, looking down at him while dark and profound sadness bleeds into every part of me. “If you want to take my baby, you’ll have to kill me first.”

I don’t wait for his answer, because there isn’t one.

He can’t kill me as long as he needs me, and thanks to his own clever design, he needs me now more than ever. He needs yet another alibi, and Luigi already relies on me to do his books.

Saverio De Luca dug a big fat hole for himself.

We both know it when I walk from the room.

And I’ll be damned if my heart doesn’t shatter into a million messy pieces.