Chapter 42 #2
Giovanni’s expression softens the second he clocks Bianca and Stephano. Luca’s gaze lands first on Elena and Alessandra, then on me.
Antonio comes straight to me and puts his hand on my back.
“Elsa,” he says, his hand slides slightly, guiding without pushing. “This is Giovanni,” he says. “And Luca.”
Giovanni gives me a small nod, reserved. Luca’s is briefer, his eyes sharp and assessing in a way that would probably terrify me if I weren’t so off-balance already.
“Roberto would’ve come too,” Antonio adds, glancing between the women and me, “but he was eager to get back to Olivia and the baby.”
The baby.
The word echoes through me.
Baby.
Isabella. His newborn niece. Roberto hurrying back to his wife and child. Bianca pregnant. Elena with Alessandra on her hip. Stephano pushing his little car across the coffee table.
And maybe I’m—
No.
I force the thought down so hard it almost hurts.
“Of course,” I say, but I hear the distraction in my own voice. Thin. Delayed.
Antonio’s eyes flick to my face, narrowing just slightly. He notices everything. Always.
Before he can ask, Bianca stands, smoothing a hand over Stephano’s back.
“Well,” she says lightly, but not too lightly, “we should head out.”
Elena is already shifting Alessandra higher on her hip, and the look she gives Bianca is quick and knowing. They sensed it. Of course they sensed it. Whatever is on my face right now, it must be screaming.
Giovanni’s gaze moves to Bianca immediately, softening in a way that changes his whole face.
Luca steps toward Elena and takes Alessandra from her without even seeming to think about it. The little girl goes easily, presses her lips to his cheek. If only the world could see Luca Conti, crime lord, with his little daughter cradled in his arms.
“It was really nice meeting you,” Bianca says, and my throat tightens.
“You too,” I manage. “And… thank you. For the cannoli.”
Bianca grins. “I’ll take that as a formal request to come back.”
Elena’s smile is warmer, gentler. “We will,” she says.
Luca looks at Antonio once, a whole conversation passing between them without words, then turns to me and gives a short nod. “Rest,” he says.
That’s it. Just that. A directive and, somehow, not unkind.
Then they’re all moving toward the door.
Giovanni gets Bianca and Stephano out first. Luca follows with Elena and Alessandra. Antonio hangs back just long enough to lock eyes with me once more, probably making sure I’m still upright.
The door closes behind them.
Silence falls fast.
The apartment feels enormous again. Too quiet.
And suddenly I can’t just stand there.
I bend and start gathering things off the coffee table—used napkins, little dessert plates dusted with powdered sugar, half-empty lemonade glasses. I don’t even know what I’m doing exactly, only that my hands need something, something simple and manageable.
I stack a plate too hard. It clicks against another.
Antonio turns from the door. “Elsa.”
“I’ll just clean this up,” I say quickly, not looking at him. “It’s fine.”
He crosses the room silently, and it’s somehow louder than a shout.
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you rest?”
“That’s all right,” I say, still too fast, reaching for a glass. “I don’t mind.”
My fingers close around it, but before I can move, his hand wraps gently around my wrist.
I freeze.
He takes the glass from my hand and sets it back down on the table.
“What’s wrong?”
My heartbeat jumps into my throat.
“Nothing,” I say immediately, and I hear how false it sounds.
I reach for the napkins instead. He catches those too, pulling them lightly from my fingers and setting them aside like I’m a child grabbing sharp knives, then he takes my other wrist.
“What’s wrong?”
He slides his hands up and closes them around my arms, forcing me to hold still.
I keep my eyes on the middle of his chest.
Because if I look at his face, I might say it.
And once I say it, it becomes real.
His grip isn’t tight, but it’s enough. Enough that I can’t keep pretending I’m very busy with paper napkins and pastry crumbs and anything else that isn’t this.
“Elsa.”
Just my name. Quiet, calm, patient.
I keep my eyes on the center of his shirt. On the button I can make out near his sternum. Anywhere but his face.
“What happened?” he asks.
I swallow. My throat feels too small.
“Nothing happened.”
The lie is weak. We both hear it.
Antonio exhales through his nose, and one of his hands slides up my arm, slower now, gentler, then up to my cheek.
My pulse jumps. I finally make myself look up.
His expression shifts the second our eyes meet.
“Are you sick?” he asks immediately.
“I—” I stop, because yes. No. Maybe. God.
His thumb brushes over my cheekbone. “Elsa.”
The gentleness almost undoes me more than pressure would.
My laugh comes out breathless and shaky. “I’m fine. I’m just…” I trail off, because I’m not fine, and the words are all wrong, no matter which ones I try first.
He waits.
That’s somehow worse.
No pushing. No filling the silence. Just that steady look and those hands on me, holding me in place, holding me upright.
I glance toward the kitchen where Bianca and Elena had stood, where they’d looked at each other over my head like they already knew something I didn’t want to know.
Antonio’s eyes track that glance. His jaw tightens.
I close my eyes for a second. Just a second. Then I open them again and force the words out before I can lose my nerve.
“I think,” I whisper, “I might be pregnant.”
Silence.
Not long. Not dramatic. But enough that I feel every beat of my heart in my fingertips.
Antonio doesn’t let go of me.
He doesn’t step back.
He just goes very still.
I can’t breathe properly.
“It’s probably nothing,” I say too fast, because the stillness is unbearable and I need to fill it before it crushes me. “Stress. The week. Everything that happened. I’ve been nauseous, and dizzy, and emotional, but that could be anything. It probably is anything. Something. I’m sure it is.”
My voice keeps climbing, and I hate it.
Antonio’s gaze doesn’t leave my face. “You think you’re pregnant?”
“I don’t know,” I say, and my voice goes too high and a little hysterical. “I can’t exactly go out and get a pregnancy test or-or-or make an appointment. So, yeah, I think.”
He watches me for another long second, then shifts his hands, one sliding around my back, the other moving to the base of my skull, his fingers tangling gently in my hair. He lowers his head and presses his lips to mine.
The kiss is soft. Soft enough to make my chest ache. Not demanding anything. Just… quiet. It stops the shaking in my hands for a second.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine. He closes his eyes.
“I was terrified,” he says, and the words are so quiet, I barely hear them, “that you were going to tell me you wanted to leave.”
My breath catches.
He opens his eyes.
“Pregnant,” he says, like he’s testing the word out. His thumb strokes the back of my neck. There’s no shock on his face. No anger. Just something that looks a hell of a lot like… wonder.
My chin wobbles. “You’re not… you’re not mad?”
“Mad?” He actually looks confused by the question. “Why would I be mad?”
“Because of Bellandi. Because of this. Because it’s the worst possible timing and it puts a baby in danger and it’s complicated and—”
“And it’s ours,” he finishes. "Elsa, amore mio. If you're really pregnant, do you know what that means?"
"What?" I breathe.
"It means we're having a baby," he says, a slow smile spreading across his face. "A baby!"
He slides both arms around my waist and picks me up.
I let out a small, undignified yelp as he spins me in a circle right there in the middle of the living room.
“Antonio!” I laugh, grabbing onto his shoulders. “Put me down! You’re crazy.”
He stops spinning, but he doesn’t put me down. He just holds me close, my feet dangling an inch off the floor.
“I’m not crazy,” he says, his face buried in my hair. “I’m happy. I’m so fucking happy.”
I laugh again, but this one is wet, and I know I’m crying, but it’s not because I’m scared anymore.
It’s relief. Pure, blinding relief. And now that my terror is gone, joy.
I press my face into the warm skin of his neck and breathe him in, letting the solid feel of him anchor me. “Me too,” I whisper.
He finally lowers me to the floor, but he doesn’t let go. He presses his lips to mine again, but doesn't stay there. He kisses my chin, my cheek, my temple, my jaw. Running kisses all over my face, like an excited puppy.
I laugh and try to turn away, but he holds me tight. “Stop, that tickles.”
“Never,” he murmurs against my skin. "I'm never letting you go. You're stuck with me."
"Nowhere else I'd rather be," I say, emotion thick in my voice.
He pulls back and looks at me, his eyes shining. The joy in his face is so pure and so bright it’s almost too much to take in.
A real smile, the kind I haven't felt in days, spreads across my face. My heart feels light, buoyant.
“A baby,” he says again, like he can’t believe it. He slides a hand down to my stomach, his palm splaying wide over the fabric of my shirt.
My hand covers his.
“You know,” I say, my voice still a little shaky. “We don’t actually know for sure. It could just be stress.”
Antonio’s smile doesn’t falter. "I'm choosing to believe," he says, his thumb stroking gently over my stomach. "But we'll find out for sure. I'll take care of it."
I nod, trusting him completely. He'll figure it out.