Chapter 21 Matteo
MATTEO
I’ve stared down barrels, walked into ambushes, and survived things that should have put me in the ground. I never blinked. Never flinched.
But sitting beside my wife in this medical room has my pulse hammering like something is trying to break out of my chest. We’ve had appointment after appointment, and still the same knot tightens every time we walk in.
Beatrice feels it immediately. Her hand clamps around mine, and when I look at her, she’s smiling like she already knows I’m fighting myself.
“You need to stop looking like you’re about to pass out,” she says softly. “Everything is okay.”
She says it every time, but experience tells me nothing is guaranteed. Not life. Not safety. Not this.
“I know,” I say, kissing her hand anyway. It steadies me more than it should.
She lies back on the table, shirt rolled up, gel spread over her stomach. Her eyes are bright, fixed on the monitor. I squeeze her hand and force myself to look too.
The technician moves the wand, humming under her breath. The screen flickers—static, shadows, shapes that never make sense to me until suddenly they do.
A flicker of movement.
There they are.
My chest clenches hard. Every time I see that tiny shift of life, it hits like a punch I never brace for.
“There we are,” the technician says. “Baby’s active today. Feeling that, mama?”
“Yeah. I feel him.” Beatrice’s voice is soft, full, already gone.
I look at her. Tears are building, not falling yet, and she’s biting her lip like she’s holding herself together. The way she looks at that screen knocks something loose inside me.
“You think it’s a him today?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says immediately. “I look prettier today. And they say boys make you more beautiful.”
I roll my eyes. “Amore, you’re beautiful every day.”
She changes the baby’s sex depending on her mood. For three days it was a girl. Today it’s a boy—my son.
“Okay, let’s have a listen now,” the technician says, pressing buttons. “Do you want to know the gender?”
I look at my wife. “Bella?”
She shakes her head. “We don’t get many good surprises in life. We can wait.”
I nod. “We wait.”
The technician adjusts the machine. “Let’s find that heartbeat.”
This part always hits me the hardest. Too many stories. Too many things that can go wrong. Beatrice tells me to stop reading, but knowledge is the only weapon I have when I can’t protect them physically.
The silence drags.
A second too long. Then another.
My spine goes rigid.
I’m seconds from demanding answers when it finally hits—the rapid, fierce thrum of a tiny heart fighting its way through the speakers.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Beatrice gasps. “Our baby.”
Her hand tightens in mine. I squeeze back. Relief hits so fast it nearly takes my breath.
I study the screen—ten toes, ten fingers, a small hand drifting, then—
“He’s sucking his thumb,” I say, a low laugh breaking out before I can stop it. “Didn’t know they did that this early.”
The technician smiles. “They do. They burp, hiccup, stretch… some even dance. Mama, those little flutters you feel? That’s your active one in there.”
“So smart already,” I say, watching the screen like it’s a tactical briefing I can’t afford to miss. “And size-wise? How’s the baby?”
“The baby looks good, Dad.”
The technician prints a few images. “Your doctor has the bloodwork and genetic results. I’ll get these ultrasounds ready, then you can head to his office.”
She leaves, taking the wand and the noise with her, but the screen stays on—my kid still glowing in black and white. Silence drops hard between us.
I grab a paper towel and wipe the gel from Beatrice’s stomach. She pulls her shirt down, eyes never leaving the monitor.
“I can’t believe I’m about to become a mother,” she says quietly. “There’s a whole human growing inside me.”
Something tightens in my chest—sharp, sudden—but I force my jaw steady. No breaking. Not here.
She turns to me, tears in her eyes, and whatever control I’m holding slips just enough to show.
I lean in and kiss her forehead. My voice comes out low, rough.
“That’s our child.”
For a moment, everything I’ve lived through—every fight, every bullet, every close call—lines up and points at this. At her. At the kid on the screen.
And I know one thing with absolute clarity: anyone who tries to touch them won’t live long.
“Are you ready for this?” she asks, cupping my cheek. “I know you never—”
“Bea.” I stop her. “You’re my wife. That baby is mine. Blood or not doesn’t matter. They’re a Davacalli. That’s the end of it.”
Her eyes soften, something warm breaking through her shock. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
I kiss her palm, brief and controlled. “You married me. That’s enough.”
Her smile trembles. “I love you, Matteo Davacalli.”
“And I love you,” I reply, steady as stone.
I kiss her—quick, grounding, final—because anything longer and I might forget we still have a doctor to meet, a world to protect, enemies who would take any chance to strike.
When I pull back, I look at her and know the truth without needing to say it. These two are my entire life now.
And God help anyone who tries to take them from me.
The clinic doors slide shut behind us with a soft hiss, and for a moment I stand there with my hand on the small of her back, grounding myself.
She’s glowing. The sunlight hits her just right, turning her skin gold. It shouldn’t hit me the way it does, but it does every damn time.
I help her into the car, take the wheel, and pull out of the parking lot with the new ultrasound photos tucked safely beside me. We drive in silence—comfortable, steady, the kind that settles deep.
Adjusting to married life has been easy. Too easy. I can’t even remember what my life looked like before her. Looking back, it feels like I was just moving from point A to B, nothing lasting, nothing real. She changed all of that without even trying.
Her hand rests on mine over the console, her thumb tracing slow circles across my knuckles like she owns the right to soothe me—and she does.
The city drifts by in warm afternoon light. Traffic hums around us. Someone honks a few lanes over, but none of it reaches me.
I glance at her. Her head leans against the window, eyes half-closed, her hand still linked with mine.
I clear my throat. “I’ve been thinking about names.”
Her eyes open, lazy and curious. “Oh?”
“For the baby.”
She lifts a brow. “Already?”
“Yeah.”
A small smile curves her lips. “Okay. Let’s hear them.”
I shouldn’t feel nervous. I’ve walked into gunfire calmer than this.
“Daniele. For a boy.”
She blinks, then repeats it softly, trying it out. “Daniele…”
“It was my grandfather’s name,” I say, voice lower than before. “He built the foundations of everything I run now. My father was Davide. I broke the chain, but I think it’s time to start it again.”
Beatrice nods slowly. “It’s beautiful. And for a girl?”
“Serena.”
She tilts her head. “Serena?”
“My mother’s name.”
She watches me—really watches me—for a long second, and I know she sees something most people never get close to.
A part of me I don’t hand out freely. A part only she gets.
“You’ve never spoken of your mother so often,” she says quietly.
I shrug once. “There isn’t much to tell. She died because of this world, and talking about her isn’t easy. But she was the light for my father and me. When she died, that light went out in him. If we have a daughter, it would be good for her to carry that light forward.”
Beatrice studies me, softer than I deserve. “You’ve thought about this more than I expected.”
I allow myself a small smirk. “I’ve had time. And this is our first child together. I never planned on kids, but now that we’re here, I want to do it right. I want to be present. I want to be involved.”
She laughs—soft, genuine—and something settles in my chest like it finally found the right place to land.
I squeeze her hand. “You will make the best father,” she says.
I lace our fingers and bring her hand to my lips. At a red light, I turn to her fully.
“I don’t need to be the best father in the world, amore. I just want to be the best one for you both.”
Her eyes shine before the tears slip. She tries to blink them back but they fall anyway.
“Damn these hormones,” she says, laughing through the tears. “They make me so emotional.”
I wipe the tear with my thumb, guiding her face to mine, and kiss her—slow, steady, grounding. When I pull back, there’s a new light in her eyes.
“I happen to like your hormones,” I say, “considering they have you wanting to ride me like a—”
“Matteo!” She shoves me, cheeks flaming. “You can’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true. You’re insatiable, bella.” I smirk. “Not that I mind. I’m just as gone for you.”
I give her a look she knows too well, and her blush deepens.
“Just drive,” she says, biting back a smile as the light turns green.
I pull forward toward the penthouse, her laughter still lingering in the air. If this is what the rest of my life looks like, then good. I’ll take it.
But even with her hand in mine and peace sitting warm in my chest, I’m not stupid enough to forget the truth.
Good things don’t last long in my world. War is brewing.
And Giacomo won’t stay quiet forever.
Next time he comes for us, I’ll be ready.