The Wife He Left Pregnant (Hers to Forgive #3)

1. Serena

SERENA

At four months pregnant, I’ve learned three things.

One, the baby hates chicken.

Two, my bladder is now a public utility.

Three, there’s no polite way to refuse wine at a Castellano family dinner without six people looking at your stomach like it contains the next pope.

Claudia lifts the bottle anyway.

“Just half a glass?” she asks.

Her smile is soft. Claudia does everything softly. She wears grief in cream silk and small diamonds. Even her lipstick looks respectful.

“No, thank you.” I put my hand over my water glass before she can get creative. “I’m sticking with this.”

“Of course.” Her eyes drop to the curve under my green dress. “You’re being careful.”

It sounds like praise.

That’s Claudia’s special gift. Everything sounds like praise until you’re alone later and realize she called you an idiot.

I smile back. “Very.”

Rocco’s hand settles on my thigh under the table.

He doesn’t look at me. He’s listening to his uncle talk about a shipment that got held up outside Glasgow, a lorry sitting three days past its window while the men waiting on the docks lose their nerve.

Nobody says what was in the shipment. Nobody ever does around me.

I know anyway. I’m a Castellano wife, not a houseplant.

Rocco’s thumb moves once against the silk covering my leg. He knows I’m annoyed.

“Careful is good,” Vittorio says from the head of the table.

It’s not his seat. This is Rocco’s house, Rocco’s long black table that could seat twelve people or one very dramatic séance. But Vittorio takes the chair at the head whenever he visits.

Rocco lets him. That worries me more than if they argued about it.

“We’ve had enough surprises lately,” Vittorio continues.

His eyes move from my stomach to Rocco.

There it is.

Eight months ago, I lost our first baby at nine weeks.

The Castellanos call it a surprise. My mother calls it a loss. I call it nothing in this room because if I start, I might throw a fork.

The baby moves low in my stomach. Not a kick exactly. More like a small fish turning around.

Rocco’s hand tightens on my thigh.

“This baby is not a surprise,” he says.

His voice is quiet. Every man at the table stops moving.

That’s what Rocco’s quiet voice does. It makes armed men remember appointments elsewhere.

Vittorio leans back. He’s sixty-three, silver-haired, and still built like he expects to have to bury someone personally. “You know what I mean.”

“Then say what you mean.”

Nobody touches the food.

I glance at the roast chicken in front of me and try not to gag. This would be a terrible time to prove point one.

Claudia puts down her wineglass.

“Vittorio only means the family is happy,” she says. “We all are.”

She reaches across and touches my wrist. Her fingers are cool. I fight the urge to pull away.

“After everything you’ve been through, Serena, it’s sweet that you still have so much hope.”

Sweet.

I’m twenty-eight years old. I’ve been married to Rocco for three years. I know which judge owes the Castellano family money, which cousin can’t be seated beside which uncle, and which bathroom in this house has a window large enough to climb through.

But sure. Sweet.

Rocco finally turns his head. He looks at Claudia’s hand on me.

She removes it.

“Serena is not hopeful,” he says. “She’s pregnant.”

Claudia blinks.

Across the table, Matteo Greco looks down at his plate. I think he’s hiding a smile.

Matteo is one of Rocco’s men. He has a scar through his left eyebrow and the face of a man who’s never once enjoyed a family dinner. Sensible man.

Vittorio cuts into his beef. “Pregnancy changes a man.”

“Does it?” Rocco asks.

“Makes him cautious.”

“Caution keeps men alive.”

“Fear makes them weak.”

The baby moves again.

Rocco feels me shift. His attention comes to me. Long enough to make sure I’m not hurting.

Vittorio sees it.

“You used to settle problems faster,” he says.

“I still settle them.”

“Rafe D’Amato is still breathing.”

The name changes the room.

Matteo’s head comes up. Claudia goes very still. Rocco’s thumb stops moving.

Rafe runs a crew on the east side. He smiles too much, wears beautiful suits, and once called me bella at a charity dinner just to see whether Rocco would break his jaw in public.

Rocco did not. Mostly because I stepped on his shoe.

“This is dinner,” Rocco says.

“It’s business.”

“Not in front of my wife.”

I hate that sentence.

Vittorio looks at me with a small, tired kindness that feels worse than an insult. “Exactly.”

Rocco’s hand leaves my thigh.

“You have something to say about my wife?” he asks.

Vittorio sighs. “You hear an attack in everything now.”

“Only when you speak.”

That does make Matteo smile. Claudia notices too. She notices everything.

“No one is attacking Serena,” she says. “She’s carrying the future of this family.”

Not a baby. The future of this family.

God help the poor child if she wants to become a dentist.

“I’m carrying someone who has been sitting on my bladder since four this afternoon,” I say. “Can we lower expectations until after dessert?”

Matteo coughs into his fist.

Rocco looks at me. There’s a crack in his expression now. The corner of his mouth almost moves.

I live for those cracks.

Claudia gives a light laugh. “You’re so good for him.”

The compliment lands on me. The warmth is all for Rocco.

“You make him almost normal.”

Almost. Normal.

Rocco’s face closes again. I push a potato around my plate.

There are women who marry into families like this and turn hard in the first year. They stop laughing too loudly. They stop asking where their husbands have been.

I’ve learned some rules. I’ve ignored others.

Rocco says that’s what he loves about me. His family says it makes him weak.

Same woman. Different review.

“Serena does not make me anything,” Rocco says.

He picks up his knife. The men at the table breathe again.

“I decide what I am.”

Vittorio smiles without warmth. “We’ll see.”

Dinner continues. Technically.

I eat two bites of potato and half a roll. Claudia tells a story about a foundation luncheon where a woman wore white shoes in October. Apparently this is a crime. Matteo leaves before dessert after Rocco gives him one look. Vittorio takes a call in the study.

By the time coffee arrives, my back hurts and Rocco has barely touched me again.

Claudia leans toward me.

“Don’t take Vittorio personally,” she says.

“I don’t.”

This is a lie. I take everyone personally. It keeps life interesting.

“He worries about Rocco.”

“Rocco can handle himself.”

“Usually.”

Her expression is gentle. Concerned. Perfect.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing bad.” She puts one hand over mine again. “Only that men like Rocco carry so much. Sometimes love gives them one more place to be hurt.”

I pull my hand free this time.

“Good thing I’m not planning to hurt him.”

Her smile shifts. Barely.

“Of course not.”

Rocco appears beside my chair. He holds out his hand.

“We’re leaving.”

Claudia sets down her cup. “Already?”

“Serena is tired.”

I am, but I didn’t tell him that. He knows.

I take his hand and stand. The room tilts for one rude second. Rocco’s arm is around my waist before I can pretend it didn’t.

“I’m fine,” I whisper.

“I know.”

He keeps his arm there.

Vittorio returns while Rocco is helping me into my coat.

“Think about what I said,” he tells him.

Rocco doesn’t blink.

“I heard you.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It’s all you’re getting tonight.”

Outside, the air is cold enough to sting.

Matteo opens the back door of the car. Rocco helps me in like I’m made of thin glass. This would annoy me more if my feet didn’t hurt.

He gets in beside me. The privacy screen goes up before the car moves.

For three blocks, neither of us speaks. Rocco stares out the window. The city slides across his face in pieces.

“I hate when you do that,” I say.

“Do what?”

“Put me in the wife box.”

“I don’t have a wife box.”

“You absolutely have a wife box. It’s silk-lined and heavily guarded. Nobody tells the wife anything because the wife is delicate.”

“You are not delicate.”

“Obviously.”

His voice drops.

“You are pregnant.”

“Also not a secret.”

“Vittorio was trying to provoke me.”

“He succeeded.”

“No.” Rocco’s voice stays quiet. “If he’d succeeded, dinner would’ve ended differently.”

That should scare me. It also makes heat slide low through my stomach, which is deeply inconvenient and possibly proof that I need better hobbies.

“Claudia thinks I make you weak,” I say.

“Claudia talks too much,” he says.

“You didn’t answer.”

“You don’t make me weak.”

“What do I make you?”

For one long second, he says nothing.

Then he reaches over and hooks two fingers under the hem of my dress.

“Rocco.”

“You asked.”

His hand slides over my knee.

“Matteo is driving.”

“The screen is up.”

“That doesn’t make the car soundproof.”

His mouth moves near my ear. “Then be quiet.”

My whole body reacts. Traitor.

I catch his wrist before his hand gets any higher. “Home.”

“Home,” he agrees.

He turns his hand and laces our fingers together. That’s worse.

Sex I can handle. Tenderness is where people get injured.

We make it through the front door. That’s the full list of our achievements.

The lock clicks behind us. Rocco takes off my coat, hangs it neatly, and then stands there looking at me.

The house is dark except for the lamp in the entry. His men are outside. The staff have gone to bed.

It’s just us.

“What?” I ask.

His eyes move over the green silk.

“You wore this on purpose.”

I look down. “I wore a dress to dinner. Alert the papers.”

“You know what this one does to me.”

“Makes you forget basic table manners?”

He steps closer.

“Serena.”

That voice.

I should make him talk first. About Vittorio. About Rafe. About Claudia measuring every breath Rocco took.

Instead, I put both hands on his chest.

His heart is beating hard. Proof. Stupid, physical proof that I can still get to him.

“You ignored me all through dessert,” I say.

“If I looked at you, we’d have left before dessert.”

“That would have saved me from Claudia’s coffee.”

“I’ll apologize properly.”

His hand closes around the back of my neck.

He kisses me. Not softly.

Rocco kisses like he doesn’t believe in half measures. His mouth opens mine. His other hand grips my hip and pulls me against him, careful of my stomach even while the rest of him is hard and hungry.

Wanted.

He still wants me. After everything, his mouth on mine like I’m not made of the thing we lost.

For months after, Rocco kissed me like cracked glass. Every touch carried a question he was too afraid to ask out loud.

There’s no question in this.

I fist my hands in his jacket and kiss him back.

He walks me against the closed door. One hand slides between us, over the curve of my stomach.

He stops.

“You good?”

“Very.”

“No pain?”

“Only from your family.”

His mouth almost smiles against mine.

“I can fix that.”

“No murder before bed.”

“Your rules are becoming unreasonable.”

I laugh, and he kisses the sound out of me.

His hand moves under my dress. My underwear is already damp when his fingers find me.

He makes a rough sound in his throat.

“This wet from the car?”

“Maybe I really liked the potatoes.”

He bites my lower lip. Then his fingers push inside me.

My head hits the door.

“Quiet,” he reminds me.

“You’re inside me in the front hall.”

“With my fingers.”

“Oh, thank you for clarifying.”

He curls them. The smart answer leaves my body.

Rocco watches my face while he touches me. Like my pleasure is information he can’t trust anyone else to collect.

His thumb circles my clit. Slow once. Harder the next time.

I grab his shoulders.

“Rocco.”

“Come for me.”

Bossy man. Terrible family. Excellent hands.

My body tightens. The orgasm hits fast and sharp, my legs shaking under the green silk.

Rocco holds me up through it.

Then he pulls his fingers free and brings them to his mouth.

He does not look away.

I nearly come again from that alone.

“Upstairs,” I say.

“No.”

He turns me toward the door. My palms land against the wood.

His hand smooths down my back, then lifts my dress over my hips.

“Rocco.”

“Tell me no.”

His belt opens behind me. My pulse jumps.

“I’m not telling you no.”

“Tell me what you want.”

He rubs the head of his cock between my legs. Wet. Hard. Waiting.

He’s not a patient man. Not with anyone else.

“I want my husband to fuck me.”

He pushes into me slowly.

The stretch makes me gasp. Rocco stops with one hand on my hip and the other spread over my stomach.

“Still good?”

“Yes.” I push back against him. “Move.”

His control lasts another two seconds. Then he does.

His thrusts are deep and steady. Rough enough to make the door shake. Careful enough that his hand never leaves the curve of my stomach.

I feel every part of him. The danger. The restraint. The way he could break anything in his path and still touch me like the one thing he refuses to damage.

“Mine,” he says against the back of my neck.

I should object on principle. Instead, I reach back and catch his hair.

“Yours.”

He groans.

His hand moves between my legs. Two hard circles and I’m gone again, coming around him while he holds me against the door.

Rocco follows with my name against my skin. Not Claudia’s. Not the family’s.

Mine.

For one stupid, perfect minute, that feels like enough.

Later, I wake alone.

The bedroom is dark. My green dress is on the floor beside Rocco’s trousers. One of his socks is hanging from the lamp.

Mafia dignity is fragile after midnight.

I reach across the bed. His side is warm.

A thin line of yellow shows under the bedroom door. Voices carry from the hall.

Rocco’s voice first. Low enough that I can’t make out the words.

Then a woman’s voice through the phone. Soft. Careful.

I sit up and pull the sheet over my chest.

Rocco stands in the open doorway with his back to me. He’s wearing black trousers and nothing else.

His phone screen glows beside his face. The name is large enough to read from the bed.

Claudia Castellano.

The cold starts low, under the baby, and spreads.

One in the morning. His cousin’s widow. That soft, careful voice.

I pull the sheet higher and wait for him to turn around.