Chapter 31 Belle
BELLE
Six months later, I'm roughly the size and shape of a small planet, and Sofia has zero filter about it.
"Mama, you're blocking the whole hallway," she announces, sliding past me like I'm an inconveniently placed piece of furniture. "The baby made you huge."
Brutal honesty from a seven-year-old.
But she's been calling me "Mama" for months now, so she could tell me I look like a beached whale and I'd still melt into a puddle of maternal goo.
I waddle after her anyway, my hand on my belly.
The little one rolls and kicks as if agreeing with her. Great. Team Sofia versus me is already forming.
The estate doesn't feel like the fortress it used to.
Sure, security's tighter. There are new cameras, new guards, all those little Luca-touches that scream paranoia, but it's not cold anymore.
Laughter lives in the walls.
Sofia's giggles echo off marble floors.
The smell of cookies now replaces the tang of gun oil.
It's… home. My home. And soon the baby's, too.
We've already set up the nursery.
Crib, rocking chair, Luca pretending he knew the difference between "sage green" and "mint."
I keep sneaking in there just to stare at the little socks folded in drawers. The tiny onesies.
Peace is strange, but I'll take it.
I pad down the hall, Meatball and Bruno clattering behind me until they lose interest and collapse in a sunbeam, pawing and playing.
My feet ache, my back aches, basically everything aches, but the second I reach the nursery doorway, the aches ease.
Because Luca's already in there.
Luca stands beside the crib he assembled with his own hands—after a two-hour battle with Swedish instructions that nearly ended in homicide.
His palm smooths over the rail like he's blessing it, or maybe checking for the thousandth time that it's sturdy enough to protect what's most precious.
The sight of him—this dangerous man preparing a safe space for our child—does something to my chest.
Makes it tight and warm and impossibly full.
I lean against the doorframe. "Admiring your handiwork, Papa?"
He turns, and his face softens in that way it only ever does when it's just us. "Checking it's sturdy."
"Sturdy," I echo, walking in and brushing my hand over the sage-green sheets. "Baby's going to be ten pounds at most, Luca, not a battering ram."
"You'd be surprised," he says, but there's a smile tugging at his mouth.
The peace settles in my chest, warm and dizzying. At last, I let myself believe this is real.
"You've made it safe," I say, softer than I mean to. "You've made it ours."
His arm slides around my waist, pulling me against him. "It was always yours."
Before I can answer, little feet slap against the hardwood and Sofia bursts into the room like a confetti cannon.
She makes a beeline for the crib, peeking over the rail even though it's empty.
"I'm so excited the baby isn't a secret anymore!" she blurts, spinning to face us, eyes sparkling.
I choke on a laugh. "Sofia—"
Luca blinks. "Wait. What do you mean, 'isn't a secret anymore'?"
She gives him the most incredulous look, like he's just asked why the sky is blue. "Why, Daddy, Mama and I had a secret."
My jaw drops. "You little traitor!"
"Daddy knows now, so it's not a secret anymore," she insists, smug as can be.
"What the hell are you two talking about?" Luca looks like we've kicked him out of some club.
"She told me not to tell anybody when she was throwing up all the time. So I didn't. Girls only club." Sofia throws him a knowing look.
Luca's brows shoot up, and then—God help me—he starts laughing.
The kind of laugh that shakes his shoulders, and makes his eyes crinkle.
"You mean to tell me," he says, scooping her up and giving me a look of mock horror, "you and Mama kept my baby a secret from me?"
"Yup." She pops the "p," grinning like she just got promoted. "I'm very good at secrets. You should hire me."
Luca runs a hand down his face like he's questioning all his life choices as he kisses Sofia's cheeks silly. "Unbelievable. My captains can't keep their mouths shut for twenty-four hours, and you held on for months."
She beams, kicks her heels in the air, completely unfazed.
He shakes his head, muttering as he stares at me, "Jesus Christ. Outplayed by a six-year-old and my wife."
I grin. "Don't take it personally. She figured it out herself."
He shakes his head and sets Sofia down, still in disbelief. "Un-fucking-believable."
"What, hey!" Sofia extends out a hand. "Where's my penny for bad language?"
"I think we ought to make it a dollar." I grin.
Sofia squeals and Luca pulls out his wallet, still muttering in disbelief under his breath.
We spill out into the gardens not long after, the three of us and our furry crew.
The air smells like roses and cut grass, dusk painting the sky in streaks of copper and violet.
Luca and Sofia march ahead while Meatball slinks between them, good as an angel.
Until, of course, he remembers he's a cat.
With a sudden burst of arrogance, he launches himself up the nearest tree.
Claws, tail, attitude. He scales halfway, wedges onto a branch, and then stares down at us like he's the king of the castle.
"Meatball!" Sofia yells, hands cupped around her mouth. "Come down, you bad cat!"
Meatball yawns. Sprawls. Stretches. Very much not coming down.
Luca plants his hands on his hips and bellows back to me. "Unbelievable. Your cat is more defiant than half my men."
"He's your cat too." I leisurely pace the gravel with Bruno.
Bruno, for his part, plods beside me like the loyal soldier he is, every step careful, as if he knows I'm carrying fragile cargo.
He doesn't pull the leash, doesn't stray, just leans into me with quiet solidarity.
"You know what?" I pat his massive head, his ears twitching. "You're a true gentleman. Not like your brother over there staging a coup in the tree."
Bruno huffs, entirely agreeing with me.
"Bruno!" Sofia calls. "Help me get Meatball down!"
Bruno does not move. Because Bruno is smart. And also, Bruno has correctly identified Meatball as a lost cause.
I laugh under my breath, resting my hand over my belly. "See that, baby? Stick with the dog. The cat'll sell us all out at the first opportunity."
Up ahead, Luca is trying reason. "Meatball, get your ass down here before I climb up there myself."
Meatball licks his paw.
Sofia stamps her foot. "Daddy, he's laughing at you!"
"Yeah," Luca mutters, shooting the cat a killer look which Meatball ignores. "Don't push your luck, furball."
I keep walking, Bruno padding loyally at my side, the scene unfolding like some ridiculous sitcom: Mafia Don versus Cat.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I fish it out, still grinning—until I see the name flashing across the screen.
Dad.
The smile slips. My pulse spikes.
The gardens blur. Meatball, Bruno, even Luca's exasperated voice fade into background static.
Because when my father calls after months of silence, it can't be good.
I swipe to answer, my throat already tight. "Dad?"
Silence stretches between us—long enough for my heart to forget its rhythm, for all the old wounds to split open fresh.
"Belle." His voice cracks like he's been practicing my name in empty rooms. "I need to see you.