Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Matteo
I see the briefest flicker of something that crosses her golden-brown eyes before she locks it down behind that mask of defiance she wears so well. Fear? Anxiety? It's hard to read, but then again, any pregnant woman being held captive would be concerned about medical procedures.
"What kind of tests?" she asks, and her voice is steady, but I catch the slight tension in her throat.
"Standard medical examination," I reply simply. "We need to ensure you and the baby are healthy."
I step into the hallway, leaving her with that explanation, and signal for Dr. Reeves to enter.
He's been waiting patiently in the shadows, medical bag in hand, the same calm professionalism that's served the Romano family for fifteen years etched into every line of his weathered face.
Through the door, I can hear Dr. Reeves's calm voice explaining the procedure, can hear her measured responses.
She's maintaining control, but there's an underlying tension in her voice that wasn't there during our earlier conversation.
My phone buzzes with a text from Enzo: Everything ready for transport to the estate. Waiting for your signal.
I type back: Stand by. Finishing checkup first.
The door opens and Dr. Reeves emerges, carrying a blood sample in a sealed vial. "I'll need about thirty minutes to process this," he says quietly.
I nod. "I'll wait with her."
Stepping back into the room, I find Alessia sitting exactly as I left her, but something has changed. The rigid control in her posture has given way to something that looks almost like... resignation?
"How are you feeling?" I ask, settling into the chair across from her.
"Like someone who's been kidnapped and is having unauthorized medical tests run," she replies, but the previous fire in her voice seems dimmed.
"Standard precaution. We need to ensure you and the child are healthy for transport."
Her eyes snap to mine, and for a moment, I see something raw and vulnerable before she locks it away again. "Transport?"
"To more comfortable accommodations. A pregnant woman deserves better than a warehouse."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I watch her carefully. The way her fingers worry at something invisible on her left hand, the careful control of her breathing, the slight tremor in her jaw she's trying to hide.
The minutes tick by in relative silence. I check my phone—messages from Enzo about transport readiness, updates from Rafael about perimeter security, the usual stream of information that flows through a don's day. But my attention keeps drifting back to the woman across from me.
"Tell me about Lorenzo," I say eventually, needing to fill the silence.
Her entire body goes rigid. "What about him?"
"What kind of husband was he?"
"The kind you'd expect from a Moretti," she says, her voice flat and carefully controlled.
"Which means?"
She doesn't answer immediately, her gaze fixed on some point beyond my shoulder. When she finally speaks, her voice carries a weight that wasn't there before. "Powerful. Demanding. Used to getting what he wanted."
"And what did he want from you?"
"The usual things men like him want from their wives. Obedience. Silence. A son to carry on the family name."
Something in her tone makes me lean forward slightly. "Did he get what he wanted?"
Her laugh is bitter and sharp as broken glass. "Not all of it."
I study her reaction carefully—the way her shoulders tense at the mention of his name, the careful neutrality in her tone that feels rehearsed.
There's something there, buried beneath the surface, but she's not ready to reveal it.
Not yet. The response tells me nothing and everything at once: she's learned to give answers that sound complete while revealing nothing of substance.
More time passes. I can hear the distant sounds of the warehouse—my men moving equipment, the low hum of generators, the occasional crackle of radio chatter. Normal operating sounds, but nothing about this situation feels normal anymore.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, there's a soft knock on the door. Dr. Reeves enters, carrying a manila folder that contains the results that will either confirm our assumptions or shatter them entirely.
"Well, Doctor?" I ask, though something in his expression already tells me this conversation is about to take an unexpected turn.
Dr. Reeves glances at Alessia, then back to me, his professional composure intact but something uncertain in his eyes. "Perhaps we should speak privately first?"
"No." The word comes from Alessia, sharp and final. "Whatever it is, I want to hear it."
I study her face, see the way she's bracing herself as if for a physical blow. My instincts, honed by years of reading people in life-or-death situations, suddenly start screaming that we're about to enter completely uncharted territory.
"Tell us," I command.
Dr. Reeves opens the folder, his movements deliberate and careful. "The blood work is conclusive," he says, his voice carrying the weight of irrefutable fact. "No elevated hormone levels. No signs of pregnancy, recent or otherwise."
The words hit the room like a bomb detonating in slow motion.
"The patient," Dr. Reeves continues, his clinical tone making the revelation even more stark, "is not pregnant."
The silence that follows Dr. Reeves's revelation stretches like a blade between us. Not pregnant. Never has been. The words echo in my mind with the precision of a sniper's bullet, clean and devastating.
The words hit, but my face remains of stone. I’ve spent too many years teaching men that silence cuts deeper than any outburst. Instead, I study Alessia's face with the same cold assessment I'd give to a chess board moments before checkmate.
She meets my gaze without flinching, her chin still raised in that gesture of defiance that's quickly becoming her signature.
But I see it now—the hairline cracks in her armor, the way her breathing has shifted from controlled to carefully measured.
She's been waiting for this moment, dreading it, preparing for it.
"Dr. Reeves," I say without taking my eyes off her. "Thank you. That will be all."
He gathers his equipment with practiced efficiency, the manila folder disappearing into his medical bag along with the evidence that could shift the entire balance of this war. The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving us alone with the weight of her deception.
I let the silence stretch, watching her catalog my lack of reaction. She's trying to read me the same way I'm reading her, looking for any sign of what comes next, but I keep it blank.
I leave the room.
I turn and walk to the door, my movements deliberate and controlled. In the hallway, Enzo and Luca wait with the patience of men who've learned to follow orders without question. But I can see the tension in their shoulders, the questions they're dying to ask.
"Well?" Luca asks the moment the door closes behind me, his storm-gray eyes—so like my own—searching my face for answers.
"Not pregnant. Never has been." I keep my voice low, clinical. "The entire foundation of this war is built on a lie. They think she is pregnant, but she is not."
Enzo's expression doesn't change, but I catch the way his dark eyes narrow fractionally—the only sign that this information has registered as significant. His self-control has always been exceptional, forged in the docks of Brooklyn, where showing weakness meant death.
Luca, however, can't hide his shock as easily. His jaw tightens, his hands clenching at his sides as the implications hit him.
"What do we do?" He finally asks, his voice carefully controlled despite the tension radiating from his frame.
The question hangs in the air. Every decision I make now will ripple through the Romano empire, affecting the lives of my family, my men, my legacy.
"Nothing changes outwardly," I decide, the strategy crystallizing with cold clarity. "No one else knows about these test results. Dr. Reeves is bound by our usual arrangements. As far as anyone is concerned, Alessia Moretti is carrying Lorenzo's child."
"Matteo—" Luca starts, but I cut him off with a look.
"Think it through," I continue, my voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "The moment the Morettis discover she's been lying about the pregnancy, she becomes worthless to them. Worse than worthless—she becomes a liability they'll eliminate to protect their secrets."
Enzo speaks for the first time, his voice as controlled as always. "And if they discover we know?"
"They won't. Because we're going to maintain the illusion until it no longer serves our purposes." I straighten my cufflinks, centering myself for what comes next. "But first, I need to know exactly how far this deception extends. Who else knows the truth."
I can see understanding dawn in their eyes. This isn't just about a lying widow anymore—it's about controlling information that could destabilize both our families. Information that, properly leveraged, could end this war on our terms.
"She's been playing a dangerous game," Enzo observes. "Forty-five days of maintaining that deception under Don Emilio's scrutiny..."
"Which means she's either exceptionally clever or exceptionally desperate," I reply. "Possibly both. Either way, she's now our problem to solve."
"Prepare for transport to the estate," I order. "Full security detail. And remember, as far as anyone knows, we're moving a pregnant woman who requires careful handling."
Luca nods, already reaching for his phone to coordinate the convoy. But I catch his arm before he can dial.
"This information doesn't leave this hallway. Are we clear?"
"Clear," they both respond simultaneously.
Enzo moves to carry out the transportation preparations with his usual efficiency, but my brother lingers for a moment, studying my face with the familiarity of a lifetime spent reading my moods.
"What are you thinking?" he asks quietly.