Chapter 15 Belle
BELLE
Pulling away is my new cardio. I swear I burn more calories dodging Luca's eyes than I ever did on a treadmill.
I do this because I need to pull away from Luca Moretti. Like, mentally build a wall, emotionally pack my bags, and spiritually change my phone number.
Because the deeper I fall, the harder the crash when everything blows up—and with a mafia boss baby daddy and his suspicious brother watching my every move, "blowing up" isn't just a metaphor.
It's a guarantee.
So that's how Operation Distance Myself From the sexy beast begins. I'm not sure if it's even possible to friendzone the father of my unborn child, but I sure as hell try.
I keep it breezy. I keep it bright. I keep it casual.
For three days now, it's been "how's your day?
" and "good to see you, but I have to go.
" It's elaborate excuses, sudden headaches, and perfectly timed bathroom breaks whenever he enters a room.
It's exhausting and stupid because the man literally lives here. With me. In his house.
But if I don't keep moving, feelings catch up. And feelings are the last thing I can afford to have right now, when there's a future I need to think about without going all cloudy.
This morning, I slip out of bed before sunrise, tiptoe down the hallway I now call the hall of shame, and make it to the kitchen without running into him.
I'm halfway through managing to get in some form of food without hurling when I hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet.
"Belle? Are you free?"
I spin around to find Sofia standing in the doorway in pink pajamas, her hair a mess of dark tangles.
"Yes, I am sunshine. What's up?"
"It's Sunday and I'm boreeeeed…" she whines.
"Oh no!" I furrow my brows. "Now what can we do about that?"
She looks miserable as she stares out through the window at the rain. "I don't know." The munchkin sighs like she's spent all day playing bridge or knitting.
I hold back a smile. To the kid, it's a big problem being indoors.
"What if we…" I pretend to think, to build up the anticipation, "bake some cookies?"
"For breakfast?" She looks at me like I just offered her the keys to Disneyland.
"Don't tell your dad."
She zips her lips with her finger, then throws away the key. My heart does that stupid little flip-flop thing at how damn adorable she is.
"I'll never tell," she whispers loudly. "Can they be chocolate chip?"
"Is there any other kind worth making?"
And just like that, Operation Distance Myself gets pushed aside for Operation Make Sofia Happy. Call it flipped priorities, but when she smiles, I forget how to run.
Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen looks like a flour bomb went off. Sofia's standing on a stool next to me, her tongue poking out in concentration as she counts chocolate chips into the bowl.
"Nine, ten, eleven... um, twelve?" She looks up at me, unsure.
"That's right." I nod. "Keep going."
"Thirteen, fourteen... um, fifteen..." She counts out loud. "Sixteen, seventeen…That's a lot!"
I bite my lip. "Actually, we need about two hundred more."
Her jaw drops. "Two hundred? How many is that? I don't know how to count all that."
"Well, here's a trick—we can just dump a whole bunch in at once." I hand her the bag. "Go crazy."
She upends the entire bag into the bowl with manic glee. At least a handful bounce off the countertop and hit the floor.
"Oops." She giggles.
"Perfect technique," I assure her. "The floor chips are for the cookie gods."
She nods seriously. "Daddy says when you spill something, it's an offering."
"Your dad said that?" I can't imagine the Beast of New York talking about "offerings" for spilled anything.
"Uh-huh. When I knocked over his whiskey."
Now that tracks.
Sofia kneels down to pick up the fallen chocolate chips. I grab a paper towel and start cleaning up the mess with her. "How about you stir the dough while I handle the floor chips?"
She takes the wooden spoon and stirs like a tiny Olympian.
"This is fun," Sofia sighs, then her voice drops. "The girls at school always talk about baking with their mommies."
The words hit like a physical blow. I set down my spoon, crouching to her level.
"Do you miss having a mommy to bake with?" I ask gently.
She shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the chocolate chips. "Sometimes. But Daddy says Mommy's watching from heaven, and she'd be happy I found someone to teach me."
My throat tightens. "What else does Daddy tell you about her?"
"He shows me pictures. She was pretty. Like a princess. And he tells me stories about how they met and stuff."
My heart hits the brakes. Easy.
"What kind?" I ask.
"This one time, Daddy bought Mommy big diamonds. She got mad because he was late to meet her and threw them back in his face."
Icon. Legend. Woman after my own heart. I smile, and it hurts.
"Okay," I say, rallying to safer grounds before the kid gets sad. "Cream the butter like it owes us money."
The hand mixer whirs, and vanilla sweetens the air. I teach her the egg crack: one confident tap, no shell storm.
"Can I do the next one?"
"You're certified," I say.
She smacks too hard, and the egg explodes. We both gasp, then laugh with our whole bodies.
"Emergency cleanup," I cry, passing her paper towels.
We stir. We sneak dough. We commit small felonies against baking practices.
Then she drops it, soft as a pebble in a pond: "Are you excited to be my new mom?"
The question hits me like a freight train. I freeze with my throat suddenly tight.
"I..." What do I say? That I'm terrified? That I never signed up to be anyone's mother, let alone a step-mother to the daughter of New York's most dangerous criminal? That I'm already pregnant with her sibling and haven't told anyone? "I'm excited to get to know you better."
Nice dodge, Belle.
"It's okay if you're scared," she says. "I was scared of Bruno when Daddy first got him, but now he's my best friend."
I laugh, but it comes out watery. "You're a pretty smart kid, you know that?"
"That's what Daddy always says."
We slide the cookies into the oven, and I set the timer. Sofia hops down from her stool and starts licking the wooden spoon, getting cookie dough all over her face.
"So, is that a yes?" she asks, her voice muffled by the spoon.
"Is what a yes?"
"Are you excited to be my mom?"
I look at this perfect little human, with her big eyes and chocolate-smeared cheeks, and something inside me just... breaks open. Like a dam cracking, letting loose a flood I didn't know was there.
"Yeah," I say softly. "I think I am."
She beams at me, then frowns suddenly, looking past me. "Uh-oh."
I turn to find Meatball, that orange menace, creeping along the counter toward the second tray of unbaked cookies.
"Meatball, no!"
Too late. He pounces, landing right in the middle of the cookie tray, sending dough flying everywhere. I lunge for him, but he's already sprinting across the counter, knocking over the flour canister in his escape.
A cloud of white explodes into the air.
"Get him!" Sofia shrieks with delight.
Meatball leaps from the counter to the floor, trailing paw prints of flour and cookie dough. He streaks past one of Luca's bodyguards who's just entered the kitchen.
The man—a mountain in a suit—makes the fatal mistake of trying to grab Meatball.
My cat, who has the personality of a chainsaw with fur, responds by climbing the guy like a tree, using his claws.
The bodyguard howls, spinning like a top, trying to detach the angry feline from his torso.
"Sorry! He doesn't like being grabbed!" I shout, running after them.
Sofia's doubled over laughing, which sets Bruno off. The Great Dane comes thundering into the kitchen, barking excitedly at the chaos.
He skids on the flour-covered floor, crashes into the bodyguard's legs, and sends the poor guy sprawling.
Meatball, now free, darts under the table.
"Get the cat!" I yell to Sofia, who drops to her hands and knees.
"He went that way!" She crawls after him.
Bruno, thinking this is the best game ever invented, bounds after Sofia. He knocks over a chair in his enthusiasm.
I round the table just in time to see Meatball make a break for the doorway. "Cut him off!" I shout, lunging.
Sofia giggles maniacally and tries to head him off, but she slips in the flour and goes sliding across the floor on her butt.
The bodyguard is back on his feet, looking murderous. "Miss Belle, perhaps I should—"
"We've got this!" I insist, chasing Meatball into the hallway.
Bruno gallops past me, barking joyfully, his tail knocking a vase off a side table. It shatters spectacularly.
"Oops," Sofia whispers behind me.
Meatball, the evil genius, jumps onto the staircase banister and runs along it like a tightrope walker, looking back at us with what I swear is a smirk.
The hunt continues through the living room.
By now we've collected an audience. Two more bodyguards watch from doorways, alarmed yet amused. The house staff peek in from the hallway.
And somehow, in the middle of this tornado of chaos, I'm laughing that kind of laugh that makes your sides hurt and tears stream down your face.
Sofia's the same, doubled over and wheezing. Even Bruno seems to be grinning.
Only Meatball maintains his dignity, walking back to the kitchen and sitting on top of the refrigerator, calmly licking his paw like he didn't just turn the house into a war zone.
"We'll never catch him up there," Sofia says, out of breath.
"That's his victory perch," I agree, leaning against the counter. "We can let him be now. It's safer for us if he's up—"
The kitchen tilts like a ship in rough seas. Light turns too bright, then too dim, and a rushing sound fills my ears like static. My knees buckle.
I grab the granite counter, knuckles white, waiting for the world to right itself.
"Belle?" Sofia's voice echoes from underwater. "You look funny."
"Just got dizzy," I manage, forcing a smile. "Too much excitement chasing orange tornados."
But my hand drifts instinctively to my stomach, and I know this isn't about excitement at all.
Not now. Please, not now.
"I think the cookies are done," I manage, nodding toward the oven. "Why don't you ask one of these nice gentlemen to help you get them out while I go clean up?"
Without waiting for an answer, I hurry out of the kitchen and down the hall to the nearest bathroom. I barely make it before my knees hit the tile, and I'm heaving into the toilet.
Morning sickness. I sit back on my heels, waiting for the room to stop spinning, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Pull it together, Belle," I whisper.
My hand drifts down to my still-flat stomach. There's nothing to see yet, no outward sign of another life. But I know it's there.
"What are you doing in there, little one?" I whisper softly, pressing my palm against my belly.