Chapter 42
Chapter Forty Two
Elsa
I’m sitting on Antonio’s couch with a cannoli in my hand, and for the first time in days, the apartment doesn’t feel like a holding cell.
It feels… alive.
Stephano is on the floor with a little car he’s pushing back and forth with solemn focus, like it’s serious work.
Alessandra toddles between Elena’s knees and the coffee table, patting at a throw pillow, then deciding the fringe on the rug is the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.
Bianca watches them both with the kind of half-attention mothers have mastered—present even when they’re talking, ears tuned for the exact sound of trouble.
Bianca’s cannoli is ridiculous. The shell is crisp and flaky, the filling sweet without being too sweet, and there’s powdered sugar on my fingers, damning evidence.
I take another bite.
Bianca grins when she notices. “See? Told you.”
“I’m going to need you to stop feeding me like this,” I say around the bite, because it’s either that or admit I might actually cry over pastry.
“Impossible,” Bianca replies easily. “It’s how I show affection.”
“I’m showing you affection by not cooking for you. I’m completely hopeless,” Elena says.
I snort. “Join the club.”
Elena’s eyes light up. “You too? Finally. Everyone in this family is amazing in the kitchen, and I burn garlic every time I touch it. Every single time.”
I smile. “Antonio’s been teaching me some stuff, and it comes out all right, but only because he tells me exactly what to do and exactly when to do it.”
Elena laughs. “Same here. Luca tried teaching me a few things. Once, the whole kitchen filled with thick, black smoke, and we had to air it out for hours. After that, he hasn’t been so eager about getting me back in there.
” She reaches a hand out and places it over Bianca’s. “We’re so lucky to have Bianca.”
Bianca’s eyes soften. “I’m happy to do it.”
They both look at me with that soft affection in their eyes. Like it’s a done deal. I’m already one of them.
Something in my chest tightens so fast it surprises me.
Because it’s kind. And it’s simple. And I haven’t had much of either lately.
I swallow and blink hard. “God, I’ve been so emotional lately,” I say, forcing a laugh that comes out thin. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’ve been through something that warrants it, and you came out the other side,” Bianca says. “We both know how that is.”
“You…” I look from one to the other. “Both know?”
Elena nods. “Yeah, we’ve had our share of dealings with rivals.
It gets better, I promise. Conti men don’t take the matter of safety lightly, which is why we’re all on lockdown.
I practically had to beg Luca to bring me along.
I promised him several sexual favors. Not that I mind. ” She smiles slyly.
Bianca laughs. “Keep it in your pants over there,” she says. Then she leans over and lightly squeezes my forearm. “You don’t have to apologize for having feelings,” she says. “Especially after what happened.”
My throat closes.
I nod too quickly, because if I speak, it’s going to crack.
“I’m going to refill these,” I say, indicating to my empty glass like I’m suddenly very busy and very normal. “Lemonade, anyone?”
“Please,” Bianca says.
Elena lifts her glass. “Thank you.”
I stand, and the room tilts.
Not a little.
A full, sick swoop like the floor drops out from under me for half a second.
My hand tightens on the back of the couch. I freeze, perfectly still. My stomach rolls, my vision fuzzes at the edges, and I breathe through my nose.
When the dizziness finally eases enough. I let out a breathy laugh. “Head rush. Sorry about that.”
Behind me, the women don’t respond. I continue walking to the kitchen.
I make it to the kitchen and reach into the fridge for the pitcher of lemonade. My hands aren’t quite as steady as I’d like.
Behind me, I hear soft footsteps.
“El—” Elena starts, gently.
I turn too fast and regret it immediately, the room giving another small sway. I steady myself with my fingertips on the counter and force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
I set the pitcher on the counter carefully.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just feeling a little off today.”
Bianca doesn’t buy it for a second. She and Elena drift into the kitchen behind me, concerned.
Elena keeps her voice light. “How long has that been happening?”
“It hasn’t.” I shake my head. “It’s just… today. This week.” I swallow. “Stress.”
Bianca and Elena share a look again—the kind of look women share when they already know what the other is thinking.
“I don’t want you two to start,” I say, too sharp, because panic is already clawing up my ribs. “It’s been a week from hell. Anyone would feel sick.”
Elena doesn’t flinch. She stays calm in a way that makes me want to scream and cry at the same time.
“Elsa,” she says softly, “I’m not trying to scare you.”
“Then stop,” I say, and my voice cracks on the last word.
Bianca’s expression shifts into sympathy, and it makes me want to burst into tears. “Okay. We won’t. We’ll just… ask questions.”
I swallow hard.
Elena’s voice stays even. “When was your last period?”
Heat rushes up my neck. “Not that one.”
I grab the pitcher and turn away to walk back to the couch.
They follow.
“It could be stress making you feel sick,” Elena says, but she doesn’t sound like she believes that’s the whole story. “But the dizziness, and the nausea, and the way you went pale when you stood up, it’s all a little too familiar.”
“I’m emotional,” I blurt, grasping for something that feels safer. “I’ve been… so emotional lately.” I gesture vaguely to my face, to my stupid tear ducts. “This isn’t normally me.”
Bianca’s eyes soften. “Honey, you don’t have to apologize for being human.”
My eyes sting immediately, and I hate it. I hate that my body is doing this again, like a faucet I can’t fix.
“I’m not—” I start, then my throat closes.
Elena steps closer, not touching me, just near enough that I don’t feel alone on the edge of some cliff. “Talk to me,” she says. “Is this how you typically handle stress?”
“I—” No. No, it isn’t. “This is different. This isn’t a meeting with a new client or a deadline on a big project. I’ve just never dealt with anything like this before, so the stress is different.”
But in the back of my mind, I know that’s not true. Maybe it wasn’t exactly like this, but I remember a time when I was in a situation where I felt unsafe and betrayed.
The floor of my agent’s dark office. Boxes full of letters sitting in front of me.
My stomach flips hard enough, and the nausea rolls through me so hard, I have to sit.
Reading the horrible things those people wrote to me. The things they wanted to do with me, wanted to do to me. And not all of them were sexual. Some of them were sick fantasies. Murderous, torturous.
I had a panic attack right there after a particularly bad one. I had more than one in the days that followed, just remembering them.
I fought with my mom. And for the first time in my life, I doubted that modeling is what I wanted to do. Everything changed so quickly for me.
But I didn’t have nausea and sickness, dizzy spells.
Elena and Bianca sit in silence while I come to terms with something I’ve been denying all week.
My stomach rolls again, a sick, sour churn that feels like a warning bell.
I close my eyes for a second, and when I open them, Elena is watching me with sympathy, like she knows what I’m going through. Of course she knows what I’m going through. I’m not the first woman in this room to experience this exact situation. Hell, I’m not even the second.
“What if I am?” I whisper before I can stop myself. “What if I’m pregnant?”
The word hangs there, absurd and terrifying.
My hand goes to my abdomen on instinct, like I can feel something there already. Like my body knows something my brain is refusing to accept.
My breath comes faster.
“With Bellandi,” I say, voice rising, “and all of this—my life might be in danger. And if there’s a baby—”
Bianca’s voice cuts in, steady in contrast to the terror and chaos inside me. “Breathe.”
I drag in air, shaky and uneven.
“What would Antonio think?” I ask, and that’s the part that turns my chest inside out. “Would he be happy? Would he be furious? Would he—” My throat tightens.
Elena’s eyes flash. “He would never.”
I want to believe that. I do. But fear doesn’t care what I want.
Bianca sits next to me and places her hand on my forearm. “Elsa,” she says, very gently, “if there’s even a chance…”
Elena nods, picking up the thought. “You have to tell Antonio before they make their next move.”
My stomach drops.
“What next move,” I whisper, even though I already know there’s always a next move with men like them.
Bianca’s gaze is unwavering. “Whatever plan they’re making at Vito’s right now. Whatever decisions are happening. They need the whole picture.”
Elena’s voice is soft but absolute. “They need to know for sure. And you do too.”
I stare at them, my mind racing in circles, terror and logic colliding.
Because if I’m pregnant, there’s far more at stake than just my life.
It’s a while yet before Antonio comes back, which I’m grateful for. It gave me a chance to pull myself together.
But still, when the apartment door opens, my head jerks up so fast my neck protests.
Antonio steps in first.
Relief hits me instantly, sharp and physical, but it’s tangled up now—tangled up with the conversation I had with Bianca and Elena, with the word ‘pregnant’ still echoing around inside my skull like it was shouted into a cathedral.
He’s home.
And behind him come two other men. They must be Giovanni and Luca. I already met Roberto, but he’s not with them.
For a second, my brain stalls on the sight of them in Antonio’s doorway, both of them bigger somehow in his space than they were in my imagination—more solid, more real, more dangerous, and more ordinary all at once.