Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Elena
Tuscany evenings were always this gentle.
I stood in the small kitchen of my apartment, watching the sky darken outside while stirring the tomato sauce in the pot. The air was filled with the scent of basil and garlic—this was Marco's simple pasta sauce recipe, the one he said came from his grandmother.
One month. I'd been running from New York for a full month. Running from that snowy night, from that damn engagement banquet, from Igor and those deep green eyes that I'd once thought were full of love. I'd even changed my phone number to make sure I could start fresh.
The doorbell rang.
"Come in, it's unlocked!" I called toward the door, turning down the heat so the sauce wouldn't burn.
The door opened and Marco walked in, carrying a bag.
Orange sunset streamed in behind him, outlining his lean frame. He wore a simple white shirt and dark jeans today, sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, revealing his smooth forearms. Brown hair fell messily across his forehead, tired from work but not diminishing that warm quality he possessed.
He was completely different from Igor's sharp, aggressive handsomeness. Marco's looks were softer, easier to let your guard down around. About six-one, a few inches shorter than Igor, but that height felt comfortable—no overwhelming sense of being overshadowed.
"I brought bread and wine." He hung his jacket behind the door. "Smells amazing. What are you making?"
"Pasta." I turned back to the stove. "Using your grandmother's recipe. Hope I didn't mess it up."
"Impossible." He came to my side, peering at the sauce in the pot. "Elena, you have magic hands. Whatever you make turns out perfect. Grandma was talking about you this morning—said you're more thoughtful than me, her own grandson."
Mentioning his grandmother brought warmth to my chest. Mrs. Bernardi was a kind woman, over eighty but still sharp. This past month, whenever Marco was too busy with hospital shifts, I'd go take care of her, keep her company, just like I'd promised.
"Go sit down." I nudged him gently with my elbow. "The chef doesn't like being supervised."
He laughed—that gentle, reassuring smile. "Yes, boss."
Fifteen minutes later, we sat at the small dining table.
Marco had found this table, along with all the furniture in the apartment.
He said it belonged to a friend who wasn't using it, cheap rent.
But I knew he was lying—rent in this neighborhood couldn't be that low, and all the furniture was new, complete with a washer and oven.
"Marco." I set down my fork, looking at him seriously. "Thank you. Really."
"Here we go again." He shook his head. "Elena, you've said thank you at least a hundred times this month."
"Because I owe you too much." I insisted. "You bought my ticket, used fake documents to get me on the plane, brought me to Italy, found me a place, helped me settle in."
"You don't owe me anything." Marco's voice cut through my thoughts.
"Elena, we've known each other since we were eight.
When your parents died, I watched you shoulder all their debts alone.
You worked three jobs to pay them off, sleeping five hours a night.
I swore then that if I ever had the means, I'd help you. "
His gaze was too serious, making me uncomfortable.
"Besides." He continued, voice lightening. "Haven't you been taking care of my grandmother this whole month? When I'm swamped at the hospital, you visit her, bring her favorite lemon cookies. So we're helping each other, right?"
"That's different—"
"It's exactly the same." He cut me off, raising his juice glass. "Come on, cheers to new beginnings. To our new life."
I clinked my glass against his. "To new life."
The orange juice's sweetness spread across my tongue, but suddenly my stomach lurched violently. The feeling came without warning, like a fist squeezing my insides. I set down my glass, taking a deep breath, trying to suppress the nausea.
"Elena?" Marco immediately noticed something was wrong. "You look pale. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I'm just—"
Before I could finish, the nausea hit like a wave. I shot up, rushing to the bathroom, kneeling by the toilet and dry heaving.
But nothing came up.
Marco knelt behind me, one hand gently patting my back. "Elena, feeling better? Food poisoning? Was that restaurant we went to for lunch not clean?"
"No." I gasped. "Not food poisoning. I... I don't know."
But a thought suddenly flashed through my mind—one that made my blood run cold. When was my last period? I tried to remember. The engagement banquet was Christmas Day. A week after that? Two weeks? I couldn't recall. This month had been too chaotic, too painful. I hadn't paid attention to anything.
But now...
"Marco." My voice was shaking. "I need to go buy something."
He immediately became alert. "What? Medicine? Are you sick? I'll take you to the hospital right now."
"Not the hospital." I stood and went to the sink to rinse my mouth. "The pharmacy. I need to buy a pregnancy test."
The air froze.
I watched Marco's face in the mirror. He went rigid like he'd been struck by lightning, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like he couldn't believe what he'd heard.
"Pregnancy test." He repeated. "Elena, are you saying you might be..."
"My period's late." I turned to face him, forcing myself to stay calm. "Two weeks, maybe three. I'm not sure—this month's been too crazy, I wasn't paying attention. But now with the nausea... I need to know for sure."
I saw his Adam's apple bob violently. His hands clenched into fists then relaxed, complex emotions flashing in his eyes—shock, anger, and something else.
"That Russian bastard's." He finally said. Not a question. A statement.
I nodded, biting my lip.
"Fuck." He cursed under his breath, turning away, hands gripping his head. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
"Marco—"
"That asshole!" He spun back around, eyes red. "He betrayed you, humiliated you, made you watch him with another woman at his own engagement banquet, and then he... he got you pregnant!"
His voice grew louder until he was almost shouting.
"Stop. Please, Marco, stop. I need to know the result. I need to be sure."
He stared at me for a long time, chest heaving. Then he took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut like he was suppressing something.
"Okay." His voice was hoarse. "Okay, we'll go now."
Tuscany nights were quiet, just the occasional passing car and distant dog barks. I sat in Marco's car, watching the streetscape fly by outside the window. My arms wrapped tightly around myself, as if that could reduce the anxiety.
"There's a 24-hour pharmacy up there." Marco's voice broke the silence. "Five minutes."
I nodded without speaking.
"Elena." He called my name again, voice softer this time. "Whatever the result is, I'll be here. You know that, right?"
"I know," I said quietly. "Thank you."
"Stop saying thank you." There was pain in his voice. "You're... you mean a lot to me, Elena. You have for a long time."
His words made my heart clench, but I didn't ask for details.
The pharmacy's fluorescent lights were harsh.
Marco walked in with me. A sleepy clerk yawned behind the counter. When I asked in broken Italian where the pregnancy tests were, she looked at us with knowing eyes and pointed toward a section of shelves.
"I'll get them," Marco said, walking to that aisle.
He came back with three different brands of pregnancy tests.
"Different brands have different sensitivities." He explained. "Testing multiple times gives more accurate results."
I nodded, taking the boxes.
At the checkout, the clerk looked at us with suggestive eyes, a knowing smile on her lips. "Congratulations."
I instinctively wanted to correct her—we're not what you think. But Marco had already paid and was pulling me out of the store.
"Let's go back," he said quietly. "Go back and test."
We returned home. Another half hour passed. I stood in the bathroom, staring at the three pregnancy tests on top of the toilet, my hands shaking. If it was positive, if I really was pregnant, if there really was Igor's child inside me...
Three minutes were up. I took a deep breath and looked down at the three tests. Two lines. All three tests showed two bright red lines. My legs went weak, almost buckling, but I gripped the sink to steady myself.
"Elena?" Marco's voice was tense. "What's the result?"
I opened the door. He stood outside, eyes anxious.
"Positive." I heard myself say, voice terrifyingly hollow. "All three are positive. Marco, I... I'm pregnant."
"That bastard's child." He said quietly, fists clenched.
"Marco, my head's all over the place. I don't know what to do, I—"
Before I could finish, I broke down. All the emotions I'd suppressed this past month—pain, anger, anxiety—flooded over me like a dam bursting. I covered my face, shoulders shaking violently.
Then I felt warm arms around me. Marco was holding me, his hand gently patting my back.
"Don't cry, Elena. Whatever happens, I'll be here. I swear, I'll always be here."
I cried in his arms for a long time, until the tears dried up, until I couldn't make another sound. I finally calmed down and stepped back from his embrace.
"Sorry." I wiped the tears from my face. "I shouldn't have lost it like that in front of you."
"Don't apologize." He said. "Elena, you have every right to cry, to break down, to do whatever you need to do."
He took a deep breath, like he was making some major decision.
"I'll help you." He said, eyes determined. "Whatever you want to do, I'll help. If you don't want this baby, I can arrange it. Italian law is strict, but I know people, I can—"
"No." I cut him off, voice steadier than I expected.
My hand instinctively covered my stomach. It was still flat, but I knew a small life was quietly growing there. Igor's child. The child of the man who betrayed me, hurt me, destroyed me. But also my child.
"I'm keeping this baby." I heard myself say.
Marco's eyes widened.
"Elena!"
"I know it sounds crazy," I continued, thoughts becoming clearer. "I know being a single mother will be hard. I know raising a child takes a lot of money. I know it'll be difficult. But I can't do it. I can't get rid of it."
I looked up into his eyes. "This baby is innocent, Marco. It didn't choose its father, didn't choose to come into this world this way. I can't hurt this child because I hate Igor."
Marco stared at me for a long time, complex emotions churning in his eyes. Then his expression slowly softened.
"Okay." He said quietly. "If that's your decision, I'll help you."
"Marco."
"I'm serious." He stepped closer. "Elena, I'll help you raise this child."
My breath caught.
"What?"
"I'll give you both a home, Elena. I'll take care of you, protect you."
His words made my heart race, but not from being moved—from unease.
"Marco, you don't have to do this." I stepped back. "You've already helped me too much."
"This isn't an obligation." There was suppressed emotion in his voice. "Elena, all these years I've been... damn it, I shouldn't be saying this now."
He turned away like he was wrestling with something.
"Forget it." He finally said. "Now's not the time. You need rest, need to process this news. We'll talk later, okay?"
I nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Okay."
Marco left.
I stood in the empty apartment, hand covering my stomach.
"Stella." I suddenly said the word aloud. "If you're a girl, I'll call you Stella."
Outside the window, the Tuscany night sky was full of stars.
I stared at those stars, thinking of Igor. Thinking of his face, his voice, his touch on my body. Thinking of that snowy night, the things he said, how my heart completely shattered in that moment.
Then I thought of Marco's words just now, that burning look in his eyes, the way he said "all these years I've been" with such hesitation.
No. That wasn't possible.
Marco was just my friend, my family. He took care of me because we grew up together, because he was kind, because...
Because what?
I shook my head, not letting myself think further. Now wasn't the time for this. Now I needed to think about this child, about my future, about how I was going to survive in this foreign country.