Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Antonella
Bruno is going to kill Valentino.
I check my phone again. The text from Valentino arrived three minutes ago.
On our way back. He's already furious. Good luck.
Good luck.
That's all he gives me.
Good luck.
I shove my phone into my pocket and survey the living room one more time.
The dark chocolate espresso torte sits on the dining table, forty candles arranged in neat rows across its surface.
Streamers hang from the ceiling—Lily's contribution, insisted upon with the kind of determination only a five-year-old can muster.
A banner reading "Happy Birthday" stretches across the fireplace mantel.
It looks like a children's party exploded in a mafia compound.
Bruno is going to hate it.
"Stop fidgeting." Oliver appears at my elbow, pressing a glass of sparkling water into my hand. "You're making me nervous."
"I'm not fidgeting."
"You've checked your phone four times in the last minute."
"Valentino texted. They're on their way back."
Oliver winces. "How mad is he?"
"Valentino used the word 'furious.'"
"Ah." Oliver takes a sip of his own drink. "So we're all going to die tonight."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic. I'm being realistic. Your husband pointed a gun at my head for hugging you. What do you think he's going to do when he walks in and finds a surprise party?"
I don't have an answer for that.
Across the room, Gianna is helping Lily arrange napkins on the table.
My sister has been staying at the compound for the past week because she was bored, and she's settled in better than I expected.
She and Lily have become inseparable—two bright spots of energy in a house full of serious men with guns.
"The napkins need to be folded like swans," Lily instructs, demonstrating with intense concentration. "Mommy showed me how."
"Swans?" Gianna looks at the crumpled paper in her hands. "This looks more like a... blob."
"Try again."
Gianna sighs but complies.
I smile despite my nerves.
This is good.
This is normal.
Or as normal as anything gets in this family.
"You look tired," Oliver says quietly.
I turn to face him. We haven't seen each other in person in three weeks I think.
Our conversations have been limited to phone calls—late nights when he's finishing his shift at the hotel, early mornings before the compound wakes up.
He's been working double shifts for the past month, saving up for something he won't tell me about.
Oliver does this sometimes. Throws himself into work with single-minded focus, barely sleeping, barely eating, until he achieves whatever goal he's set for himself. Then he emerges, exhausted but satisfied, and returns to his normal schedule.
I've learned not to push.
"I'm fine," I say.
"You're pregnant."
"Shh." I glance around, but no one is close enough to hear. "We haven't told everyone yet."
"Sorry." He lowers his voice. "But seriously, Nell. You look exhausted. Are you sleeping?"
"Bruno won't let me do anything." I take a sip of my water. "He's been... protective."
"Protective how?"
"He tried to carry me down the stairs this morning."
Oliver chokes on his drink. "He what?"
"Carry me. Down the stairs. Because apparently stairs are dangerous for pregnant women."
"He's in a wheelchair."
"I pointed that out."
"What did he say?"
"That he would figure it out."
Oliver stares at me for a long moment. Then he laughs.
"I take back everything bad I ever said about him," Oliver says. "That's actually adorable."
"It's not adorable. It's insane."
"It's both." He grins. "The man can’t barely walk and he's trying to carry you down stairs. That's commitment."
I want to argue, but I can't.
Because Oliver is right.
It is commitment.
He touches my stomach constantly.
Not in a sexual way.
Just... touches it.
Like he's checking to make sure the baby is still there. While he can't, he touches it either way.
Like he can't quite believe it's real.
The doctor confirmed the pregnancy on Wednesday. A private physician who came to the compound, examined me in Bruno's bedroom while Bruno sat in his wheelchair and glared at the man like he was a threat to be eliminated.
Six weeks along.
Bruno didn't speak for ten minutes after the doctor left.
Then he pulled me onto his lap and held me so tightly I could barely breathe.
"This is really happening," he said into my hair.
"This is really happening," I agreed.
We stayed like that for a long time.
"Antonella!"
Lily's voice cuts through my thoughts. She's abandoned the napkin swans and is running toward me, her dark curls bouncing.
"Is it time yet? Is Bruno coming?"
"Almost." I crouch down to her level. "Valentino is bringing him back now."
"And we yell surprise?"
"We yell surprise."
"And then cake?"
"And then cake."
Lily beams. "I love cake."
"I know you do."
She throws her arms around my neck in a fierce hug, then runs back to Gianna to share the news.
"She's the only one matching your energy," Oliver observes.
"What do you mean?"
He gestures around the room.
I follow his gaze.
Pietro stands by the window, checking his phone with a frown. Nora sits on the couch beside him, one hand on her swollen belly, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else. Lorenzo and Sophia arrived an hour ago, they're in the corner, speaking quietly, their expressions serious.
And Nico...
Nico leans against the far wall, arms crossed, face set in its permanent scowl.
"We're not children," he said when Kristen hung the first streamer. "This is ridiculous."
Kristen ignored him.
She's good at that.
"Nico looks like he's planning a murder," Oliver says.
"Nico always looks like he's planning a murder."
"Fair point."
The front door slams.
Everyone freezes.
Heavy footsteps echo through the entrance hall.
Then Bruno's voice, sharp and furious: "Valentino, I swear to God, if this was some kind of—"
He wheels into the living room.
Stops.
Stares.
"SURPRISE!"
Lily's voice rings out, high and clear and delighted.
No one else speaks.
Bruno's gaze sweeps across the room—the streamers, the banner, the cake with its forty candles, the gathered family members, Oliver standing beside me with a drink in his hand.
His expression doesn't change.
"What," he says flatly, "is this?"
I want to laugh so bad.
Bruno
Balloons.
They put up fucking balloons.
Red and blue and yellow, floating against the ceiling like I'm turning five instead of forty. Streamers hang from the chandelier. A banner stretches across the fireplace that reads "Happy Birthday Bruno" in gold letters.
I stare at the scene, my hands gripping the armrests of my wheelchair.
"What is happening," I repeat, though it comes out less like a question and more like a threat.
Lily breaks from the frozen crowd and runs toward me, her small feet slapping against the marble floor. She's holding two cone-shaped party hats, one in each hand, the elastic strings dangling.
"Birthday boy!" she announces, stopping in front of my wheelchair. "You have to wear the hat. It's the rules."
She holds up a bright blue hat with silver stars on it. The words "Birthday Boy" are printed across the front in glittery letters.
If anyone else in this room tried to put that thing on my head, I would break their hand. Snap every finger. Make them regret the day they were born.
But Lily looks up at me with those big eyes, completely unafraid, completely certain I'll do what she asks.
I lean forward.
She stretches on her tiptoes and places the hat on my head, snapping the elastic under my chin with more force than necessary.
"There," she says, satisfied. "Now you look like a birthday boy."
I look ridiculous. I know I look ridiculous. The elastic digs into my jaw and the point of the hat tilts slightly to the left.
Lily grins at me like she's accomplished something important.
"Thank you," I manage.
She nods seriously, then turns and runs back to Gianna, who's trying very hard not to laugh.
Movement catches my eye. Antonella walks toward me, carrying the cake with candles flickering on top. The flames cast dancing shadows across her face. She's smiling, but I can see the nervousness underneath—the way she's watching my reaction, ready to apologize if I explode.
I won't explode.
Not at her. Not anymore.
"Happy birthday to you..."
The singing starts. Nora's voice first, then Kristen joining in. Gianna adds her soprano. Oliver harmonizes from somewhere behind them.
I look at my brothers.
Pietro stands near the window, wearing a green party hat with polka dots. The Don of the Sartori family, the man who commands respect from every crime organization in Chicago, has a cone on his head with an elastic string cutting into his stubbled jaw.
Lorenzo is beside him. His hat is pink with white stripes. He catches my eye and shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips.
Nico.
Nico is wearing a yellow hat with cartoon balloons printed on it.
He's wearing a fucking party hat.
"Happy birthday to you..."
This is the most ridiculous thing my brothers have ever done. These men have killed. They've tortured. They've made decisions that shaped the criminal underworld of this city.
And they're standing in my living room wearing children's party hats, singing to me.
"Happy birthday, dear Bruno..."
Antonella stops in front of my wheelchair. The torte is dark chocolate, exactly as she promised. Forty-one candles crowd the surface, their flames merging into a small inferno.
"Happy birthday to you!"
The song ends. Everyone watches me.
Lily bounces on her toes. "Make a wish! Make a wish!"
I look at Antonella.
She's wearing a simple green dress. Her blonde hair falls loose around her shoulders. She's carrying my child inside her. Six weeks along. Our baby.
I lean forward and blow out the candles.
All forty flames extinguish at once. Smoke curls up from the wicks, filling the air with the smell of burnt sugar and melted wax.
Lily claps. "What did you wish for?"
"Can't tell you," I say. "Won't come true."
She accepts this with the gravity of a child who understands the sacred rules of birthday wishes.
Antonella sets the cake on the table beside me. Her hand brushes my shoulder—light, casual, intimate. The touch grounds me the way it always does.
"You hate it," she whispers, leaning close.
"Yes."
"But you're not leaving."
I look at her. At the smile she's trying to hide. At the way her eyes shine with something that might be tears or might be laughter.
"No," I admit. "I'm not leaving."
Pietro approaches, still wearing his ridiculous polka-dot hat. He doesn't remove it. Doesn't acknowledge how absurd he looks.
"Happy birthday, brother."
"You look like an idiot."
"We all do." He gestures at Lorenzo and Nico. "Antonella's orders."
I glance at my wife. "You ordered my brothers to wear party hats?"
She shrugs, completely unrepentant. "Lily helped."
"I picked the colors," the child confirms. "I gave Uncle Pietro the green one because it matches his eyes."
Pietro's eyes are brown. The hat is neon green with orange polka dots.
I almost smile.
Lorenzo steps forward, his pink-striped hat somehow making him look more dignified rather than less. "Forty years old. How does it feel?"
"Like thirty-nine with more grey hair."
"The grey suits you," Antonella says. "Distinguished. Remember"
"She's lying," Gianna calls from across the room. "She told me yesterday you look like a silver fox."
Antonella's cheeks flush pink. "Gianna."
"What? It's true."
Oliver laughs. Nora hides her smile behind her hand. Even Nico's mouth twitches.
I look around the room at these people. My family. My wife's family. The strange, complicated web of relationships that somehow became mine.
Valentino stands near the door, arms crossed, no hat on his head. He meets my eyes and nods once. He's the only one who escaped Antonella's party hat mandate, probably because he threatened violence.
Smart man.
"Cut the cake," Lily demands, tugging on my sleeve. "I want the piece with the most frosting."
Antonella hands me a knife. Our fingers brush during the exchange.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
She understands. She always understands.
"You're welcome," she whispers back. "Now cut the cake before Lily stages a coup."