Chapter 32 Luca
LUCA
The gates open slower than I like. Too slow for my pulse, too slow for the shadow walking up the drive.
Belle's father.
Belle's father looks like a man who's been carrying the weight of his mistakes in his shoulders, his spine bent under regret heavy as concrete.
His gaze sweeps my estate—the guards, the cameras, the visible reminders of what kind of man his daughter married—before settling on me.
I've watched hardened killers approach with more confidence than this broken father shows on my doorstep.
He stands on my doorstep like a man facing execution, sweat beading his upper lip despite the cool autumn air.
His eyes dart past me, searching for Belle, then back to my face like he's trying to read whether I plan to bury him in my garden.
Smart man. I haven't decided yet.
"Mr. Moretti," he says, extending a trembling hand.
I take it, squeezing just hard enough to remind him whose territory he's entering. "Donovan. Come in."
Belle didn't want me to answer the door. Said she needed to face him alone.
But this is my house, and nobody walks into it without me measuring their intentions first—especially not the man who sold his daughter to save his own skin.
He steps inside, his gaze sweeping the marble entrance hall, the crystal chandelier, the armed guards positioned discreetly in the corners.
I watch his Adam's apple bob in fear.
"Quite a place you have here."
"It does the job of keeping the riffraff out," I reply stiffly and he freezes. "Belle's waiting in the living room."
He follows me down the hallway, his footsteps too careful, like he's afraid I might just turn and shoot him dead.
I push open the double doors to the living room and enter first, to stand by Belle's side.
It's petty, but I want to see his face when he sees her.
I'm not disappointed.
Belle turns from where she stands by the window when I gently take her hand.
Her father's gaze lands…
Right on her belly.
She stands at my side, her hand warm in mine, her other palm instinctively cupping the curve of her stomach like she's protecting her child.
He sees it and freezes, mouth parting, tears filling his eyes faster than he can blink them away.
"My God." His voice cracks, raw and jagged. "You're—" He can't finish. He doesn't have to.
His gaze drops to the swell under her dress, and he breaks.
Shoulders shaking, tears spilling. "Belle…my baby girl. Pregnant. I missed all of this."
Belle stiffens against me. I feel her wanting to draw back, to lock herself down, to keep the armor on.
But her chin trembles. Her eyes glisten.
And then she does the one thing she swore she wouldn't.
She lets him in.
"I practiced hating you," Belle whispers, and her voice is glass fracturing in slow motion. "For months, I rehearsed all the things I'd say when I saw you again. How I'd make you hurt the way you hurt me."
Her breath hitches, tears spilling free. "But you're here, and you're crying, and I can't... I can't hold onto the anger anymore. It's too heavy."
I squeeze her hand, grounding her. Reminding her she doesn't have to carry this alone.
Her father steps closer, slowly, like he's afraid she'll vanish if he moves too fast.
He reaches for her hand but stops short, as if waiting for permission.
Belle hesitates, then gives it. His weathered fingers close around hers, and he sobs into them like a man who's been starved of touch.
"I was a fool," he chokes out. "I thought I was protecting you.
I thought handing you over to Moretti would keep you safe.
I was wrong. I was so wrong. And I've hated myself every day since, and look at you now.
You're… pregnant and I didn't even know.
I've missed you every day, baby. Every day without you has been hell. "
"So why did you send me away?" Her voice cracks with anger. "Why didn't you call?"
"I never wanted to… trust me. But, once I did, I pulled away and thought it would be easier to adjust to your new situation." His eyes land on her belly again, then at me, and for a brief second, I see rage.
Belle stiffens, like she understands. I squeeze her hand and her shoulders relax.
"I'm happy now…" She gives her father that kindness. "Luca and I, we're in love and excited for what's to come ahead."
Her father's face fills with relief. "Oh, thank God." He lets a tear fall. "That's all I ever wanted for you, but you fought for your own happiness and I'm a guilty man for knowing that I failed as a father."
Belle covers her mouth with her free hand, shaking.
I feel the crack in her, the fracture she's been carrying since the day he betrayed her, widening now into something else—something softer, scarier.
Forgiveness.
Then his eyes lift to me.
The room tightens. My guards hover by the doors, watching.
Bruno lies by the fireplace, head up, ears alert.
Even the fucking cat is silent, tail curled like a question mark.
"Luca," Belle's father says, voice ragged but steady. "I know you have no reason to forgive me for what I did to the woman you love. What I did… I'll never undo it."
I hold his stare, steady as a bullet. "No. You won't. You sold her like property. You let her suffer to cover a debt that never should've touched her." My grip on Belle tightens, not for me, but for her. "I haven't forgotten. I don't forgive it."
His face crumples.
"But," I continue, leaning forward, my voice low and hard. "I know why you did it. You were desperate. A father with no power, no money, no options. And desperation makes men reckless." I glance at Belle, her hand trembling in mine. "You tried to save her from this life. Now I'll save her in it."
The words hang there, sharp and heavy.
He blinks, tears spilling, then nods once. "Thank you," he whispers. "God bless you for loving her."
We shake hands. His grip trembles in mine.
It isn't trust yet. It isn't forgiveness. But it's something.
Belle turns, pulling away just enough to face him fully.
She wipes her cheeks, her chin lifting with that fire I've always loved. "You better not fail this baby," she tells him, her voice steady despite the tears. "You missed too much already. Don't you dare miss this."
For a moment, he looks gutted. Then the hope floods in, bright and unsteady. "I won't," he swears, shaking his head. "I swear it."
She sniffles, then smiles through the mess of it all. "Then stay for dinner."
The relief on his face nearly drops him to his knees.
His shoulders sag, his chest rises on a shaky exhale, and for the first time since stepping onto my estate, he looks less like a ghost.
We sit at the long dining table. The air's still heavy, but lighter than before.
Belle's father dabs at his eyes with his napkin every five seconds.
Sofia chatters about school and Meatball's latest crimes.
Bruno lies under the table, loyal and quiet. Belle glows, even with her eyes still red.
For one perfect moment, we're just a family sharing dinner. Normal. Peaceful.
Then Belle's fork hits her plate with a sharp clink.
Her eyes go wide, hand flying to her belly as she looks down at the chair beneath her.
When she looks back up, her face is equal parts panic and wonder.
"Luca," she breathes. "My water just broke."
The dining room explodes into controlled chaos—chairs scraping, voices overlapping, my heart forgetting how to beat as I watch the woman I love prepare to bring our child into the world.