Chapter Thirteen
Ciro
I REALIZE AS I step out onto the street with Lindsay that I’m proud to be seen with her.
It’s a strange feeling. One that I’ve never had before.
I spent so much of my life living in the shadows that the idea of what anyone might think when they look at me has never crossed my mind.
But as we walk down the sidewalk, the four blocks to the doctor’s office, I watch the way that other men look at her.
She’s beautiful, in an interesting way. Her features are strong, her hair a wild riot of curls.
And I can see that everyone thinks so.
Her sense of fashion draws attention. It’s not something I got to fully appreciate at the estate, but now that we’re here in London, and she has some clothing provided by an assistant of mine, and my grandmother’s old wardrobe, I’m seeing more of her personality shine through.
I’ve had the things from her apartment picked up, and they will be delivered this afternoon, so that she can have the pieces that she’s made for herself.
She wants to be a fashion designer. And I want that for her. I find that I want to give her anything, everything that she might want. But I also want to keep her safe, hidden away in the apartment building, and that is at odds with the idea of giving her access to the whole world.
I’ve never experienced this feeling. The desire to hide someone away, to show them off.
I’m contemplating this as we walk into the doctor’s office. A luxury private building, where we are ushered immediately into an exam room.
There’s all manner of medical equipment, and Lindsay is given a soft robe to wear and instructed to lie down on a medical table that is much more plush than you would find in a typical office.
“There are some perks to having the Mafia’s baby,” she says as she lies there, and we wait for the doctor to appear.
“I am by no metric the Mafia anymore,” I nearly growl.
She smiles. “I know, gangster. But it makes you mad when I say it, and I kind of like you when you’re mad.”
A spark of something ignites in my chest. She’s feisty. Intense. She likes me mad because she likes the intensity. The sex. I like it too. But I’m not sure that I like the way she’s characterizing it.
I’ve never had to worry about what another person thought of me, and now here I am consumed by it.
That idea sticks hard in my chest as the doctor walks in.
“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Corretti. We’re here to do a scan of your baby.”
I don’t correct her. That Lindsay isn’t my wife. Why? She will be soon enough.
She prepares Lindsay by squirting thick, clear gel on her stomach, and then pressing the Doppler against her abdomen.
The image that flashes up on the screen is easily recognizable as a child, even to me. I can make out the round head, the profile. It’s moving, kicking its feet. I find myself in awe. There, in her womb, our child is growing. Part of me, part of her.
“Would you like to know the gender of the child?”
“Yes,” Lindsey says, as I say nothing.
“Now let’s see,” the doctor says, moving the Doppler over Lindsay’s stomach and prodding her slightly. “If we can get the baby to just roll over.” She smiles. “And there we are. It’s a little girl.”
Something explodes inside of me. A girl.
A little girl.
Oh, my father would’ve been outraged. This would have been his very worst nightmare, to have gone to all this trouble to produce a female.
A son, now that would’ve been all the better to manipulate with. To have other factions fighting to try to take control of him.
What would he have done with my daughter? Sold her into human trafficking?
My blood turns to ice in my veins.
A girl. The responsibility feels heavy.
Because a girl is soft, and I have no idea how to be. Because I can see it now, a house full of dolls and pink toys.
Because I can remember clearly what it was like when Vittoria was little. How much I loved her. Doted on her.
Love.
I swore to Lindsay yesterday that men like me, men like Renzo, don’t love.
But I feel it now. An explosion of something in my chest.
I love this child.
And I will protect her with my life.
I look at Lindsay, and see that her eyes are filled with tears.
Neither of us speaks again until we are out of the appointment, headed back to the apartment.
“I just keep thinking of myself,” she says. “A sad, lonely little girl with parents who didn’t care at all.”
“We will care,” I say.
And for once, I have the sense that I’ve actually said the right thing. Because we will care. She’s right. We have the opportunity to give our child something that we never received.
And we will.