Chapter 12 Belle
BELLE
Three days back from Rome, and I've mastered the art of silent vomiting. If they gave Olympic medals for stealth morning sickness, I'd be draped in gold.
Bathroom tiles bite my knees as I finish today's performance, shower running full blast to drown out the sound. My throat burns, but at least my secret's safe for another day.
"Belle?" Sofia's little voice calls through the door. "Are you okay? Bruno wants to know."
I flush the toilet and rinse my mouth.
"Coming, sweetie!" I call back, splashing cold water on my face. I open the door to find Sofia and Bruno waiting.
"You don't look good." She frowns. "Your face is the color of my gray crayon."
No arguments here. I know how I look, and the kid doesn't miss by a mile. Best I can do is give her the next best truth.
I laugh, ruffling her hair. "I'm just tired from our trip. Italy is in a different time zone, remember?"
"Uh-huh." She stares right up at me, those cute little eyes like buttons she wants to stitch on me.
"Hey, listen up," I say, crouching down to her level. "How about we make pancakes for breakfast? I promise not to burn them this time."
Her face lights up. "With chocolate chips?"
"Is there any other kind?"
Sofia grabs my hand, pulling me toward the kitchen.
Just for today, I've dodged a bullet. But I need to get cranking on my next steps.
Tick-tock, Belle. Bomb's gonna blow sooner or later.
Later, when Sofia's at piano class and Luca's out working, I make the call.
"Riverside Women's Clinic," a cheerful voice answers.
My hand trembles around the phone. "Hi, I'd like to make an appointment. It's for... a pregnancy check-up."
"Of course. Name?"
I get an appointment for Thursday at two p.m. Now I just need to figure out how to slip away unnoticed from a house with more security cameras than the Pentagon.
Thursday comes around. I'm halfway out the door with zero goodbyes in sight, making a clean getaway, until Declan materializes like a damn shadow.
"Where you headed?" he drawls.
My brain stalls. Clinic is the wrong answer. Shopping sounds lame. What spills out? "Meeting my father."
Declan's brows hitch. "Funny. Luca didn't mention you were allowed to do that."
Heat climbs my neck. "I'm not Luca's prisoner," I shoot back.
That earns me a slow smile. The kind that says he doesn't buy a word but enjoys the show. "Right. My mistake."
I push past him, out the door, heart jackhammering. Almost free. Almost.
"Mario," Declan calls out from behind me, "take her."
Oh no. Oh no, no, no. I can't be caught heading to the clinic, and a driver ruins my damn plans.
"Oh! I didn't realize I could use the driver. Already called a cab," I babble, tugging at my purse strap from those goddamn nerves.
Declan's eyes glint. He parrots my own words back to me, voice dipped in mockery. "Not a prisoner, remember?"
"Uh-huh." I giggle like a silly little schoolgirl. "You're right. Next time, I'll be sure to use the cars."
And then I skip out before I freeze and let my plans blow into the air.
I sit there in the clinic, scrolling my phone, pretending I'm not about to hurl.
Deep breaths. You've got this. Women do it every day. It's just a check-up. No biggie.
Except for the part where I'm to marry the father in a deal, and heck, he doesn't know what his baby mama's up to.
The ring on my finger feels heavier, accusing me of being a traitor of some kind.
But I can't tell Luca. The second he gets wind of this, he'll either cage me or rush the wedding.
And besides, I know a secret he doesn't. Those men he trusts are out for blood, and they see me as the weapon. I'm only just getting Luca to trust me.
What if he thinks I'm setting up a trap between the baby and what I have to someday tell him about those men he trusts?
The way I see it, this could go down two ways—being treated like glass, or being branded power-hungry.
Neither option screams "fun."
So yeah. Secret it is.
"Miss Belle?" the receptionist calls.
The doctor's a sweetheart, the kind that believes all news has to be good.
"Everything looks perfect, Belle," she says once she's all done. "The baby is developing normally."
All that's a blessing, yes. The ultrasound made this shit as real as it gets. On one hand, I breathe with relief at knowing the baby's okay. On the other? I cower in fear because I only have a few months before this secret starts screaming itself at the world.
"And the nausea?"
I've got plenty of time to think about what happens next. For now, I need to know what to look out for.
"Perfectly normal. It should ease up by the second trimester, but in the meantime, try eating small meals throughout the day. And start these prenatal vitamins immediately."
She hands me a prescription and a stack of pamphlets with titles like "Your First Trimester" and "Preparing for Parenthood."
I want to laugh.
How about a pamphlet called "So You're Having a Mafia Don's Baby"?
I thank her, pay in cash, and slip out, clutching my paper bag of secrets. I should tell Luca. I know I should. But every time I think about it, my heart nearly gives out.
Would Luca think I did this on purpose? A classic trap to cement my place in his world? Would he believe me if I told him it was an accident?
I don't know, and that's the problem.
By the time I get back to the house, I've convinced myself keeping quiet is the right move. Just until I figure things out. Just until I'm sure.
But something's off when I walk in. Declan is in the living room, nursing a scotch like the day's done him wrong. His eyes track me as I enter, lingering on the shopping bags I picked up as cover.
"Productive day?"
"Just the usual retail therapy." I shrug. "A girl's gotta have hobbies and Dad had to get back to work."
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Funny. Sofia mentioned you weren't feeling well lately."
My heart stutters. "Just jet lag."
"Still?"
"What can I say? I'm a delicate flower."
Declan swirls his drink. "My brother cares for you, Belle. It would be a shame if anything were... complicating things."
The threat is barely veiled. I know what he's doing—fishing for information.
"Nothing's complicated except your relationship with direct questions, Declan," I shoot back, heading for the stairs. "If you want to know something, just ask."
His chuckle follows me up. "Where's the fun in that?"
For the next few days, I feel his eyes everywhere. At dinner. In the hallway. I start being more careful—checking rooms before entering, watching what I say, keeping my prenatal vitamins hidden in an empty supplement bottle in my bathroom.
Each morning, I swallow the prenatals with a gulp of water, side-eyeing the door like I'm committing a crime.
I'm becoming paranoid, jumping at shadows, but I'm not imagining the way Declan watches me. There's something predatory in his gaze, like he's waiting for me to make a mistake.
It's like he knows.
Oh, you're in trouble now, Belle.
So I adapt. Smile wider and pretend harder.
"You're awfully chipper," Declan says one afternoon, leaning against the doorframe to the living room like he invented suspicion.
"Just a beautiful day, is all," I shoot back.
Nights are the worst. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the fact there's a heartbeat inside me that isn't mine.
I roll over, clutch my pillow, whisper to myself: Keep it together. You can do this. Just act normal.
It's a Monday when shit starts feeling real.
I'm rifling through my purse for lip gloss and realize my phone isn't there. No big deal—it's probably on the nightstand. Except it's not. Or on the dresser. Or under the bed.
Nowhere.
Panic detonates in my chest.
I tear through the room like a raccoon in a dumpster, tossing clothes on the chair, upending drawers. Nothing.
And that's when it hits me. I used it just before my shower. I know I had it in this very room.
If it isn't here, that means…
Someone took it.
Someone is watching me.
My stomach twists, and not in the morning-sickness way.
Then, I see it sticking out from under my pillow. I know I didn't leave it there.
My hands shake as I grab the phone, thumb hovering over the screen. If someone's seen my browser history, my appointment confirmations, my frantic Google searches about first trimester symptoms...
The clinic's number is right there in my recent calls. The pregnancy app I downloaded and immediately buried in a folder labeled "Shopping."
I'm not just caught. I'm fucked.
And in Luca's world, being fucked usually means being dead.