Twins Revealed
POV: Evie
Teresa doesn’t ask if I’m pregnant. That would be too easy. Instead, she removes coffee from my mornings, adds dry toast to every tray, and begins looking at me the way one looks at a locked drawer that has started ticking.
For four days, neither of us says anything.
On the fifth, I nearly vomit into a vase in the library. Not an ugly vase; that would’ve been less embarrassing. This one is blue porcelain, old, and probably worth more than several minor cousins.
Teresa appears in the doorway exactly twelve seconds later, because apparently the woman has a second career as a ghost. “You need a doctor.”
I close the book in front of me. “I need people to stop entering rooms immediately after my body betrays me.”
“You need a doctor.”
“How repetitive.”
“How pale.”
“I’m Irish. We’ve discussed this.”
“Not this pale.”
I look at her. She looks back with the same practical assessment she gives trays, fires, linens, and inconvenient women who refuse to collapse on schedule.
“You need to see Dr. Sardi. He’s the family doctor.”
I roll my eyes. “Which is exactly why I’m not seeing him.”
Teresa closes the door behind her. “You need confirmation.”
I grit my teeth. “I have confirmation.”
“You need more.”
I lean back in the chair. “I’m touched by your interest in my health.”
“I’m interested in keeping you upright.”
“No Sardi,” I say, more firmly.
“Then someone outside.”
I shake my head. “No records. Cash. No family name. No house car.”
“You cannot walk into the city alone.”
“I can if everyone’s incompetent.”
“No one here is that incompetent.”
“Shame.”
Teresa folds her hands. “I can arrange a visit.”
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “With whom?”
“A doctor who asks fewer questions than she should.”
“Why?”
“Because I pay her to.”
Interesting. I file that beneath Teresa has independent channels.
“Does Alessandro know about these channels?” I ask.
Her gaze holds mine. “No.”
That’s either true or the most elegant lie in the house. I take it. For now.
“When?” I ask.
“Today.”
Of course. The thing about secrets is that once someone else sees their outline, they begin moving faster than you do.
“I haven’t agreed,” I point out.
“You have.”
“I don’t recall that.”
“You said no to Dr. Sardi.”
“Yes.”
“That leaves this.”
I sigh. “I dislike how often you’re right.”
“Most people do.” She moves toward the door.
“Teresa.”
She stops.
“If this reaches him—”
“It won’t come from me,” she cuts me off.
I nod. “Fine.”
“For appearances,” she says, “you’re visiting a dressmaker.”
* * *
The car isn’t one I’ve used before. It’s smaller. Dark blue. No family crest. No driver in formal black. No visible escort.
The second thing I notice is Luca standing beside it.
I stop at the top of the steps. Teresa stands beside me with a folded coat over one arm.
“No house car,” I say.
“It isn’t,” Teresa says.
“No family driver.”
“He isn’t driving as family driver.”
“How comforting. A man becomes less dangerous once reclassified.”
Luca looks at me. “Miss Brennan.”
“Mr. Romano,” I reply.
His eyes move once to Teresa. Back to me. He knows something. Men like Luca survive by noticing what people are trying not to carry.
I adjust my gloves. “Are we all pretending I’m shopping?”
“Yes,” Teresa says.
Luca opens the back door of the car. I get in without taking his hand. Because if he touches me, he may feel the tremor I’m successfully hiding from everyone else, including myself. The car smells faintly of leather, rain, and cigarettes that’ve been forbidden but not forgotten.
Teresa doesn’t come. For one second, I want her to. That irritates me more than the nausea.
We drive through the gates. The outer road bends between high walls and dark trees.
I track the route because some habits remain useful even when life has decided to complicate the map.
Left at the first stone bridge. Straight through two iron posts.
Right at the road with three cypress trees.
Five minutes to the main road. Seven to the village edge. Twelve to the city outskirts.
Luca takes none of the obvious routes. The city grows around us slowly. Stone walls give way to narrower streets, narrow streets give way to traffic, traffic gives way to people pretending cities are not just organized collisions.
Luca parks two streets away, and we approach a building through its rear door.
A woman opens the door before we knock. Late fifties. Gray hair cut short. Brown eyes. Practical shoes. The kind of face that has delivered bad news often enough to stop apologizing for facts.
“Come,” she says tersely.
Luca remains by the door as I follow her.
We move down a narrow hall into a small examination room that smells of antiseptic, lavender, and old wood.
There’s a window facing a brick wall. One door.
No second exit. Cabinet. Sink. Examination table.
Screen. A machine beside it that looks too modern for the room and too intimate for my liking.
I count. Door. Window, if shattered. Cabinet, if hiding from reality. Not ideal.
“Name?” the doctor asks.
“No,” I reply.
She looks at me. I look back. After a moment, she writes something on the page. Probably difficult woman.
“Date of last period?” she asks.
I answer.
“Positive test?”
“Yes.”
“Lie down.”
I do. I hate it. The position is vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with modesty and everything to do with access. Women are expected to become furniture for information. Table. Stirrups. Breath held. Body translated by strangers.
I stare at the ceiling. There’s a crack above the light fixture, branching outward at the end. I focus on it.
The doctor works efficiently, and the ultrasound begins. The screen turns toward me. I tell myself I’ll not look.
Then I look. Of course I do.
At first, it’s nothing. Gray shapes. Static.
The doctor adjusts the probe. Her face changes.
My body goes cold before my mind can catch up. “What?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Never a good sign.
“Doctor,” I press.
She turns the screen slightly. “There’s the gestational sac.”
A small shape. Unreal. Too small to carry consequence.
“And there,” she says, “is a second one.”
The room stops. The machine’s hum becomes too loud. The clock disappears. The city outside vanishes. Even my own breathing seems to wait for permission.
“A second,” I say.
“Yes.” The doctor looks at me. “Twins.”
I can’t breathe.
That’s a door closing twice.
I look at the screen. Two small dark spaces. Two beginnings. Two impossibilities.
One child is a complication. One child is leverage and liability. One child is a bloodline with one hand around my throat.
Two is a dynasty. Two is no exit, even a theoretical one. Two is Alessandro Vitale looking at a future not negotiated through contracts or council vote or territory lines, but made inside my body without anyone’s permission, except the one moment I stopped counting properly.
“...too early for much detail,” the doctor continues, not that I hear much. “Approximately five to six weeks. We’ll need a follow-up. You should avoid stress where possible.”
That almost does it. “Avoid stress?”
She meets my gaze. “In my experience, no one appreciates that advice.”
“It’s ambitious.”
“It’s medically sound.”
The doctor removes the probe, finishes what must be finished, and gives me a moment behind the screen.
A moment. Very generous. How long should one need to assemble oneself after learning one’s body has become a major political event?
I dress carefully. Hands steady. Good hands. Reliable hands. The rest of me can catch up later.
When I step out, she’s writing on a clean sheet.
“No names,” I remind her. “Or copies. I don’t want any records of this.”
She looks up. “You’re asking me to erase medical care.”
“I’m asking you to practice discretion.”
“That can kill women.”
“So can records.”
She hears the truth of my words. “How much danger are you in?”
“That depends on who knows.”
“Does the father?”
“No.”
“Will you tell him?”
“Not yet.”
“Is that safe?”
I almost smile. “Doctor, nothing about this is safe.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then tears the sheet in half. Starts writing again on plain paper.
“No identifying details,” she says. “Supplements. Food. What symptoms require attention. You need another scan in two weeks.”
“No.”
“Twins increase risk.”
Of course. As if being biologically tied to Alessandro Vitale required any additional complications.
“I’ll consider it.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll decide based on danger, not health.”
“Efficient diagnosis.”
“I’ve seen women like you before.”
“No, you haven’t.”
A pause. “Perhaps not.”
She hands me the paper. I fold it shut without reading.
“Don’t ignore bleeding,” she says. “Don’t ignore severe pain. Eat more. Rest.”
“I hate all of that.”
“I assumed.”
“Does Teresa pay you for bedside manner?”
“She pays me for silence.”
“Good.”
I reach for my gloves. The room tilts slightly.
The doctor sees. “Sit.”
“No.”
“Sit, or I call the man outside and make him carry you.”
I sit. Immediately. Dignity has limits, and apparently being carried by Luca Romano through a secret doctor’s office is one of mine. She gives me water. I drink because refusal would be theatrical.
“When you tell him,” she says, “tell him before someone else does.”
I look at her. “Medical advice?”
“Female advice.”
“That advice is rarely less dangerous.”
“No,” she says. “But sometimes more useful.”
I stand again. This time, the room stays where it belongs. “Thank you.”
I leave the room. Luca looks at me once when I step into the hall. Men like him read rooms by what people bring out of them. I entered with a secret. I leave with a heavier one.
But he asks no questions. Instead, he opens the rear door. The outside air hits, cold and damp. I breathe it in, too sharply.
Mistake. Nausea rises.
“Miss Brennan?” Luca asks cautiously.
“Don’t,” I say.
He says nothing. I close my eyes for one second.
The nausea passes.
I continue walking. Every step feels normal. That’s the obscene part. The pavement doesn’t crack. People pass, carrying bread and umbrellas and impatience. A man shouts at a cyclist. Someone laughs from an open window.
The world continues while mine has doubled.
This time, there’s no way out.
And to make things worse, now I have to go and buy some damn dress to keep the secret.