Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Elsa
I pace the length of Antonio’s living room for what has to be the hundredth time, socked feet whispering over hardwood I’ve memorized down to the seams.
Five days.
Five days of the same rooms, the same walls. Sure, the view is beautiful, but it feels like a cage when I can’t go outside or even open a window. Antonio was adamant about that—no fresh air, no “just a crack.”
At least I have my own clothes now.
That thought should make me feel better. It doesn’t.
Because the second I pull on my underwear, my brain flashes to the image of men in my apartment, looking through my drawers, touching my things, choosing what to pack. I try not to think about hands lifting lace, deciding what to pack for me.
I swallow down the spike of nausea that rises with it.
The queasiness keeps coming in waves. Sometimes it’s nothing but a sour churn, sometimes it’s sharp enough that I have to stop and brace my palm against the back of the couch and breathe until it passes.
I’ve told myself it’s stress. Adrenaline.
Not eating enough. Too much thinking. Not enough sleep.
Anything. Anything but… something else.
I’m restless, yet tired. And I want Antonio.
Which is another problem, because where is he right now?
Not here.
Of course he isn’t.
I’m the one locked inside like a priceless vase, and he’s out having a face-to-face with his brother like it’s a normal Tuesday errand.
I know I’m guarded—I can feel it, even when I can’t see it.
The subtle sounds in the hall as guards make their rounds.
The faint sound of the elevator periodically.
The knowledge that if someone tried to force their way in, they’d be met long before they reached this door.
But that doesn’t stop my mind from spiraling.
Was it necessary? Did it have to be in person right now? Couldn’t this meeting have been a phone call? A video chat?
I’ve been working virtually all damn week, dodging questions about where I am, why I disappeared on Monday. But Antonio can’t skip one damn meeting?
A knock snaps through the apartment.
I freeze mid-step.
My heart goes careening into my throat.
Antonio was very clear: no one comes to this door without his say, and he didn’t tell me anyone was coming.
I move toward the door, every nerve alive and buzzing. I’m not supposed to open it. I know I’m not. I’m supposed to let Antonio handle it. That’s the protocol. That’s the rule.
But Antonio isn’t here.
And the door has no peephole.
I stop short of it, staring at the smooth wood, almost confused.
What kind of apartment door doesn’t have a peephole?
How am I supposed to see who’s on the other side?
My hand goes to my phone in my pocket, and I pull it out, thumb hovering over Antonio’s name.
A third knock comes, harder, and I flinch.
Then a woman’s voice calls through the door, calm and unmistakably directed at me.
“Elsa. It’s Bianca.”
My breath catches.
“Bianca Conti? I’m Giovanni’s wife. And I’ve got cannoli.”
Relief hits me so fast it’s almost painful. My eyes burn instantly, traitorous, and I press my fingertips to my mouth like that can keep the emotion in.
I unlock the door and pull it open.
But it’s not just Bianca. Two women stand in the hallway.
Both beautiful, in that polished, effortless way that makes you straighten your shoulders without thinking. One has striking blue eyes and dark hair, and she’s holding a little girl on her hip—maybe two—who is nearly the spitting image of her, from the same eyes to the same soft curve of cheek.
The other woman has green eyes and lighter hair, and she’s holding the hand of a little boy—a little younger than the girl—who looks very obviously like a Conti. The same dark hair. The same serious expression on his face.
She’s also sporting a small baby bump and a box of goods in her other hand.
My throat tightens.
I step back automatically, making space, because that’s what you do when family shows up at your door. Even when you didn’t know they were your family too, in the strangest, quickest way possible.
Bianca smiles first, warmly, but like she’s already clocking the tension in my posture, the paleness in my face.
“Hi,” she says softly. “You must be Elsa.”
I nod, because my voice is stuck somewhere in my chest. “Yes. I— Hi.”
The other woman gives me a sympathetic look, like she knows exactly what kind of day I’ve had without me saying a word.
“I’m Elena,” she says, and her voice has a lightness to it that somehow feels practiced, calming. Protective. “Luca’s wife.”
Luca’s wife.
So this is… that close. This is the center of it.
Elena shifts the little girl higher on her hip. The toddler stares at me with solemn curiosity, then tucks her face briefly into Elena’s shoulder like she’s shy.
“This is Alessandra,” Elena says, rubbing a small back in a soothing motion that looks like habit. “And this little menace”—she tips her chin toward the boy with fondness—“is Alessandra’s favorite cousin.”
Bianca rolls her eyes, affectionate. “This is Stephano,” she says, squeezing the boy’s hand. “Like his father, he thinks smiling freely is illegal.”
Stephano stares at me like I’m a stranger in his territory. Which… fair.
My gaze flicks down to their hands, to the little fingers, to the normalcy of it—kids and family and two women standing in a hallway like this is just a regular visit.
I swallow, hard. “I… didn’t know anyone was coming.”
“We know,” Elena says gently. “Antonio didn’t either. It was a last-minute call by Luca. He decided it would be safer if he came to you instead of Antonio leaving.”
My stomach dips. “They’re here?”
“They’re over at Vito’s right now,” Elena says, waving a hand. “Having a manly-man meeting. I bet there are lots of stern faces and grunts of ‘we’ll handle it.’ A lot of talk about how they must protect the womenfolk and children.”
Bianca snorts softly, and the sound of it loosens something in my chest.
I step back farther, letting them in. “I’m sorry. Please. Come in.”
They move past me without hesitation, like they’ve been in this apartment a thousand times—because they have. I’m the one who doesn’t belong here.
Elena looks at me again, the softness returning.
“You’re okay?” Bianca asks.
I nod, even though it’s a lie in at least five different ways. “I’m…”
I just shrug because no words will come out. I let out a small laugh. “Really emotional, apparently.”
Bianca’s eyes flicker with understanding and sympathy.
Elena adjusts Alessandra, then looks at me with a small, decisive nod.
“Hopefully, we can make this a little less miserable,” she says.
Stephano tugs at Bianca’s hand, impatient, and Bianca bends slightly. “Yes, yes, you can see if Uncle Antonio has snacks,” she murmurs to him, then looks back up at me. “May we?”
I blink once, then nod again, feeling awkward about the whole thing.
They come fully into the apartment, the toddlers’ small shoes making soft taps on the floor, and for the first time in five days, the place feels less like a safe house and more like a home.
And I realize, with a sudden sting behind my eyes, that I didn’t just open the door to two visitors.
I opened it to more of Antonio’s world.