Antonio
ANTONIO
3 YEARS LATER
I sit at the breakfast table with Rafael, and somewhere off in the distance, we can hear a cacophony of screams and laughter, the joyful sounds of our children at play.
“Do you think we should go see if they’re okay?” Rafael asks, his brow furrowing with concern.
I toss a quick glance toward the living room, where the delightful giggles of our children mingle with the warm chatter of our doting wives. “I think they’ll be alright, Rafe,” I assure him, trying to ease his worries.
Rafael turns pensive, his gaze drifting as he contemplates the unseen chaos. “But what if Lila needs me?” His voice carries a hint of anxiety, suggesting that his protective instincts are kicking in.
Love has undeniably turned the Bianchi brothers into saps. Rafael, my brother and the best man at my wedding, once championed a much different approach to relationships. He was all for taking my wife firmly in hand, advocating for a rule with an iron fist to show her who was truly in charge. But I can see that his marriage to Lila has softened him considerably. That’s the transformative power of a good woman. “I’m sure she would call for you if she needed you,” I reply with a reassuring nod.
Just then, Gabriella bustles through the doorway into the kitchen, our one-year-old son, Riccardo, toddling closely behind her. “Watch Riccardo,” she commands with an air of urgency. “I need to pee, and he won’t stop following me around. I tried to leave him with Lila, but he was adamant about staying with me.”
Beneath her empire waist dress, I can already see the telltale signs of her pregnancy; her stomach is beginning to swell, a clear indication that she is four months along with our second child. Soon, we’ll find out the gender, and the anticipation makes my heart race. Gabriella is glowing, exuding beauty and vitality as she moves about the room. “Anything for you, mia regina ,” I promise, rising to scoop Riccardo into my arms, feeling the warmth and weight of my son against me. With that, she hustles off, leaving the men in the kitchen to their thoughts and the sounds of our children echoing in the background.
“I guess you don’t have to be afraid of her killing you,” Rafael jokes, breaking the tension with his lighthearted banter.
I got over that fear about six months into our marriage. Though nothing went wrong in those early days, a part of me always wondered if she was truly happy or merely putting on a show for my benefit. The Gabriella I knew from the tabloids and the flashes of cameras seemed like a masterful actress, but the Gabriella who lived in our home felt like someone entirely different—more real, more vulnerable.
She didn’t redecorate our home in any grand fashion; instead, she began adding little personal touches that spoke volumes about her evolving sense of belonging. A throw pillow here, a cozy blanket there, and framed photographs of the two of us smiling together hanging on the walls. The cold, polished marble tiles that sprawled across the floors were undeniably beautiful, but with the addition of those lovely throw rugs, the space transformed into something warmer and more inviting.
Gabriella once asked me if she could return to school, and I almost chuckled at the thought because why would I ever want to hold her back? But when she confided in me that Johnston had pressured her to quit, a surge of anger coursed through me. I was relieved he was dead, as I had often fantasized about killing him myself. Just days before she gave birth to Riccardo, she triumphantly walked across the graduation stage, her degree in hand, radiating pride and accomplishment that made my heart swell.
She truly flourished when our son was born, blossoming in ways I had never anticipated. For his first two months, she valiantly battled off family members who came pouring in from every direction, their eager faces alight with excitement. They wanted to hold Riccardo and smother him with love, each one vying for a moment to cradle him close, but Gabriella was intent on forging a bond with him that felt sacred and unbreakable. Every time I came home after a long day, I found them together, a picture of pure connection. Even if he was napping, she kept him beside her in a mobile bassinet, his tiny form swaddled snugly, as she read to him or softly hummed lullabies. I’ll never know where she found the patience to handle his cries, the endless feedings, and the sleepless nights, but I thank God for it every day, marveling at her strength.
“I think she’s happy,” I confide in Rafael, my voice low, almost a whisper. “She wasn’t with Johnston.” Not that she ever admitted to murdering him; that truth hung heavy between us, unspoken yet palpable.
“I guess that’s a good thing,” Rafael says with a shrug, his expression inscrutable. “The fewer people who know, the fewer people who could rat her out.”
He’s right, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling a gnawing curiosity about it. What could have sent Gabriella on such a deep rampage that she believed her only way out was to kill a man? “Maybe one day I’ll find out,” I reply, my thoughts trailing off into uncertainty.
“Find out what?” Gabriella asks as she sweeps back into the kitchen, her presence brightening the space even more. “Rafe, I thought Lila was right behind me. We were going to get pudding cups.”
Rafael manages a nonchalant shrug, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “It’s actually been suspiciously quiet since you came through. Maybe they’re napping,” he replies, and we exchange a knowing glance, the weight of our shared secret lingering in the air.
She snorts, as unladylike as I’ve ever seen her, the sound bursting forth like a sudden gust of wind. “Your daughter is a tornado, honey. She would sooner destroy the whole of Vegas before taking a nap.” With that, she leaves as quickly as she arrived, her laughter still echoing in the air, completely forgetting about Riccardo, who remains blissfully unaware of the chaos swirling around him.
“How’d you get such a calm son?” Rafael asks, his voice laced with a hint of grumble and disbelief. “Isabella would stay awake 24/7 if she could, bouncing off the walls like a pinball.”
He has no idea about the long, sleepless nights we endured when Riccardo was around four months old. Gabriella and I would pace every inch of the house, our footsteps echoing in the quiet, trying to soothe him to sleep. The doctor had said he had colic—a term that had been foreign to me until then. I remember thinking it would never end, each wail stretching into eternity. Then, one fateful night, we finally slept through until morning, and I woke startled, as if emerging from a dream. Just like that, the storm of sleeplessness seemed to dissipate. Riccardo still had his moments of fussiness, but those were reserved for the privacy of our home. In public, he transformed. He would take in the world around him like a little scientist, eyes wide with wonder as he studied the features and mannerisms of everyone he encountered. Riccardo was a curious boy, just like his mother, forever eager to explore.
“She’s pregnant again, you know,” I say, unable to suppress the smile creeping onto my face as I think of the new adventure that awaits us.
Riccardo claps his hands together, his excitement bubbling over. “Mommy has a baby in her belly!” The way he whispers it, laden with a sense of mischief and discovery, makes it sound so scandalous, as if he’s unveiling a thrilling secret.
Rafael grins at the little boy, his eyes sparkling with amusement, before turning to me. “You ready to be a daddy a second time?” His tone carries a mix of mischief and genuine curiosity.
I pause, feeling the weight of the question settle over me. I don’t know, but to be honest, who ever really does? “She’s everything to me, Rafe. If she wants to have a dozen kids, I’ll do it.” The thought of expanding our family fills me with both excitement and a touch of trepidation, but my heart swells at the idea.
“That’s very old-school Italian,” he teases, a playful smirk spreading across his face.
It would be the only kind of old school we embrace. Everything about our relationship flies in the face of tradition and the flashy allure of Vegas. “Whatever she wants,” I repeat, my gaze drifting toward the entrance I saw her leave through, scanning for any sign of her return.
When I said that my world would revolve around her, I wasn’t kidding. She is the first person I think about when I wake up, her smile illuminating my thoughts. She is the last face I see before I fall asleep, her warmth wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. And God help me, she’s everything in between—the heartbeat of my days, the laughter that fills our home, and the love that anchors my soul.