Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty Three
Luca
The house is so quiet I can hear the clock over the mantle counting off the seconds.
I sit on the edge of the sofa with the little cardstock sleeve open in my hands. Four glossy prints, gray on gray. In the silence, I hear the heartbeat again. The quick flutter that changes everything.
Our child.
I trace the edge of a print with my thumb, afraid to touch the image itself, as if I’ll smudge it and make it less real.
The first time I heard the sound of a baby’s heartbeat, it was in a different room with cheaper lights and a rip in the vinyl chair. Carlotta squeezed my fingers until the bones complained and then laughed at herself for it, tears already running because she was like that, all big feelings.
I remember back then, Lucia was just a grain of white in a black sea, and I was a young man pretending I knew everything about anything. The gel was too cold, the machine too loud, the nurse too brisk. None of it mattered once the flutter filled the room.
“è nostra,” she had whispered, like a secret she couldn’t contain. Ours. I didn’t let go of her hand until she had to get dressed.
With son Vito, he made himself known before we ever saw him in the world. He kicked so hard, Carlotta winced. She scolded him through her belly button and then laughed.
At the first appointment, he refused to give the tech a clean angle; all spine and stubbornness, making the whole room work for it. When he cried the first time, it was not quiet. It told the world to make space. He never did learn to whisper, and I love him for it.
With Nico, I thought I was prepared, him being our third. I wasn’t. The wonder didn’t shrink; it multiplied. He never stayed still on the screen, sliding away from the probe like he already hated being the center of attention.
Later, when he was born, he barely opened his mouth to cry before it was over.
I remember standing in the kitchen at 3:00 in the morning with him against my chest, the house asleep around us, steam fogging the window over the sink while water boiled for Carlotta’s tea.
He fit under my jaw like a missing piece of the puzzle.
By the time Caterina arrived, the doctors were more differential, the rooms nicer. People looked at us with respect.
And still, Carlotta’s hand found mine and squeezed.
We’d learned to pack the good blanket and sneak in the cookies she liked because the hospital wouldn’t let her eat for thirty hours with Vito.
When Caterina arrived, she opened her eyes and found the sound of her mother’s voice like she’d been waiting for it all along. Months later, I watched my children play in the garden while Carlotta pinched basil leaves for sauce, and I thought if time had any mercy, it would freeze in that moment.
But it didn’t.
It moved, and the rooms changed, and cribs turned into beds, and then into empty beds.
Still, as many times as I’ve been through it, I’ve never learned to get used to it.
Every time the screen flashed with that image and the echo of a tiny heartbeat filled the room, I felt the same awe.
A tiny, stubborn life that asked for nothing and changed everything.
“There it is,” Carlotta would say, catching her breath and smiling that smile that filled my heart.
I can still smell the lemon oil she used on the table the night we brought Lucia home, the powdered sugar on Carlotta’s fingers from the sfogliatelle my aunt insisted she eat.
I learned to build cribs from badly translated instructions, to warm bottles with one hand while buttoning a onesie with the other, to count tiny breaths in the dark because it gave me peace of mind.
Four times, I thought I’d used up all the miracles I was allowed. Four times I was wrong.
Now I sit here with these new prints in my hand, and it’s all the same. Carlotta would have laughed at me. She would have pressed her palm to my cheek and said, “Look at you,” like I’d surprised her all over again.
I look down at the little image, frozen on paper, and let myself be exactly what I am: a man who has seen this wonder before and is just as awestruck by it as ever.
I wanted to walk Elena to the car after, stand with her under that useless little portico and see her off. Or drive off with her.
The way a father should.
Instead, I left like a ghost through the service corridor with a nod from Bianchi.
I asked Elena to lunch before I went. She said yes.
Lunch will be ready without me overseeing it, but I stand anyway, meaning to go check the pan for the lemon broth, to smell the bread, to make sure the greens are washed twice as I asked.
I make it two steps toward the hall when the glass doors slide and Vito comes in with the kind of energy that fills a room.
He stops when he sees the prints. “Is that—?”
I hold the sleeve out. He takes it carefully, like it might crack. His face does a thing I haven’t seen since he was small—open, unguarded awe.
“Madonna,” he breathes, a grin breaking. He tilts the strip to catch the light. “That little… bean.”
“Peanut,” I say, hearing Bianchi’s voice. “Seven weeks, six days by measurement.”
He squints at the numbers, nods like he understands. “Everything good?”
“Perfect.”
His grin widens, then softens. He looks up at me, and I see it hit him, the reality of it. “How was… the prosecutor?”
“Elena,” I say. “She’s having my child, Vito. You can call her by her name.”
“Just… weird is all.” He clears his throat. He hands the images back. “Is she okay?”
I feel the corner of my mouth go. “A little in disbelief. But yes. She’s handling it well.”
I don’t mention the look of wonder in her eyes as she gazed up at me. The warmth of her lips on mine. The small, needy sound that poured out of her when her tongue grazed mine.
That I keep to myself.
Vito sits back, thinking. It’s always written on him when he thinks; he doesn’t have Nico’s stillness. “You’re bringing her here?”
“For lunch.” I glance toward the kitchen. “Simpler. Safer.”
He smirks. “And no wine? A miracle.”
“Watch your mouth,” I say, but it’s softened. “I went without for years. I can handle a few months. A courtesy.”
He taps the sleeve. “People are going to find out soon.”
“Soon isn’t today,” I say firmly. “We keep it quiet as long as we can.”
“The moment this leaks, Papá,” he starts, “the world will know. Cameras, headlines. The federal prosecutor and the mafia don. It’ll be a story. It’ll be the story.”
“I’m more worried about our enemies knowing,” I say quietly. “We have to deal with that when the time comes.”
Vito nods, jaw working. “We’ll keep it tight.”
“We also keep it calm.” I hold his eyes. “For her sake.”
He nods again, sharper. “Understood.”
He glances at the prints again. “It’s crazy,” he says, almost to himself. “That little thing is—” He stops, tries again. “I didn’t think I’d see you with one of these.”
“Neither did I.” It isn’t grief when I say it. Not exactly.
He blows out a breath, stands like he can’t sit any longer. “You want me to check on security for her? The gate? Make sure nobody’s loitering by the turnout?”
“Giovanni already did. Twice.” I stand with him. “But check again.”
He grins, relieved to be pointed at something to do. “On it.” He starts for the door, then looks back, boy again for a moment. “Congrats, Papà.”
“Thank you, Vito,” I say.
He goes.
I gather the prints, slide them back into their sleeve, and tuck them into my inside pocket. They sit warm against me.
I head for the kitchen to ask about the lemon broth I already know is perfect. I will taste it anyway, because I can. Because I need to do something with these hands until she pulls up.
The chime echoes through the house just as I’m turning the corner toward the kitchen.
I double back, but Vivian, one of the housekeepers, has beaten me to it. She opens the door and steps aside.
Elena stands framed by light and the entry. She has changed since the appointment. Simple blouse, slate trousers, that dark hair loose and flowing around her shoulders. Her eyes find mine immediately, and I can’t tell if she’s relaxed or tense.
“Welcome,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I intend.
“Hi,” she answers, voice soft. She licks her lips, and my eyes drop to the action, remembering the feel of them under mine when she was all but naked in the exam room. Her gaze flicks away, bounces off the walls of the entrance hall, then comes back to me.
Vivian offers to take her bag without comment, then vanishes.
“I thought we’d sit outside,” I say, tilting my head toward the garden. “It’s nice outside.”
“That sounds good,” she says, and her voice is breathy.
We move through the living room and walk through the French doors open to the sunny afternoon. The pool throws light across the ceiling, the surface breaking with the gentle breeze.
I’d had the staff set a small round table on the terrace near the water, two chairs, a low bowl of herbs instead of flowers: basil, mint, lemon thyme. Shade from the pergola, fans turning slowly overhead. Cold water already sweating in a carafe; slices of blood orange float like coins.
“It’s pretty,” she says, and it’s not politeness. She inhales. “Smells like a garden.”
“The herbs,” I explain. “Helps the appetite. And the nerves.”
Her mouth twitches. “Who’s nervous?”
I pull out her chair. “Both of us.”
She doesn’t sit just yet, just holds my eyes.
“Really?” she asks quietly.
“Really,” I assure her.
Finally, she nods and moves to sit.
I wait until she does, then take the other seat, close enough to talk, but far enough that she has space.
Vivian appears with two tall glasses with a whisper of ginger syrup, lemon along the rim. “Ginger and lemon for the nausea,” I offer.
She looks at me questioningly.
“I have a long memory.” I pick up the carafe and pour. The ice answers with a clean, bright crack.
Beyond us, a dragonfly needles the air over the water and veers off. Inside, a timer chimes once, distant. The smells drift out—lemon broth, faint fennel, warm bread.
“I was thinking,” I say, “broth first. Something simple. Then a little grilled branzino, farro with roasted tomatoes, and a cucumber–mint salad. How does that sound?”
She eyes the table, then me. “Better than a quick sandwich before court in the afternoon.”
“That’s not a high bar, is it?”
She laughs. “I guess not.”
I pick up my glass and drink, watching her over the rim. “How are you?”
She considers, then answers honestly. “Better than this morning. Still… floating.”
“Good.” I let out a small breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Vivian returns with a small tray holding bowls of clear golden broth, lemon zest glinting on the surface, a thin ribbon of olive oil catching the light; two pieces of warm focaccia wrapped in a napkin. She sets them down and is gone before the steam has escaped.
Elena cups the bowl with both hands and closes her eyes for a second. The tension in her jaw eases. “Okay,” she says, almost to herself. “This I can handle.”
“Start with small,” I say. “We can add big later.”
“Big,” she repeats, eyes flicking to mine. The ultrasound strip burns in my pocket.
We eat in an easy silence. The pool ticks softly as the filter cycles. A breeze sends the scent of herbs swirling around us.
She sets the bowl down, color back in her face. “This is… perfect.”
“I’m glad.” I slide the small bread basket closer. “Salt helps,” I say then, because truth is a better foundation, I add: “It did with Carlotta anyway.”
“Did she get sick a lot?” She picks up a piece of bread and tears the corner.
“With Lucia and Vito, yes. Not so much with Nico and Caterina.”
To that, she just nods and nibbles on bread.
I get the feeling she doesn’t want to talk about that right now.
“We can talk more after we eat,” I say gently. “About whatever you want. Or nothing at all.”
She holds my eyes for a beat, then lets out a breath. “Let’s start with this,” she says, touching the edge of her bowl. “And the nothing. I want a little nothing.”
“As you wish.” I lean back, and a small smile spreads over my face. “We have time.”