Chapter 18
LILIANA
The name Vittorio Greco sits in my mind like a shadow that doesn’t move.
His threat isn’t loud, but it’s constant, threaded through the quiet moments of my days.
I feel it when I walk the garden paths, when I sit alone in the rooms Giovanni leaves me in, even when I close my eyes at night.
It’s there, pressed somewhere between my ribs, heavy and sharp all at once.
But lately, there’s something heavier than Vittorio.
The knowledge I carry sits differently. The weight of it is quiet but relentless. I feel it every morning when I wake, in the small changes in my body, in the fatigue that pulls at me, in the way my thoughts circle back to the same truth I’ve kept to myself.
Giovanni doesn’t know yet.
It should be him I tell first, but the thought of speaking it aloud makes my breath catch. I’ve kept it close, turning it over and over in my mind, as if holding it in silence could keep it safe.
The garden is quiet today, the air heavy with the scent of roses and trimmed grass. I’m seated on the far edge of the stone bench when Dario finds me. His approach is always unhurried, his presence never pressing, but his eyes miss nothing.
“You’re quieter than usual,” he says, lowering himself onto the other end of the bench. His gaze stays on the roses, but I feel it when he turns it toward me. “Is it Greco?”
I shake my head, though the answer is more complicated than that. My hands move slowly, my signs careful. There’s something I haven’t told Giovanni.
Dario doesn’t ask what it is. He waits, patient in a way that makes it harder to hold the words back.
I sign again, smaller now. I can’t. Not yet.
He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful. “Whatever it is, it’s not going away because you keep it to yourself,” he says finally. His voice is steady, even, the way it always is. “You should tell him.”
The words stay with me long after he leaves.
By the time I make my way back inside, the light in the halls has shifted. The sun is lower, spilling a warmer glow across the polished floors. My steps are measured, my thoughts circling the same point until there’s no avoiding it anymore.
I find Giovanni in his study. The door is open, the low murmur of his voice carrying into the hall as he finishes a call. He ends it with a few clipped words, then looks up, his eyes finding mine immediately.
“Liliana.” His tone softens when he says my name, though his attention sharpens at the sight of me in the doorway.
I step inside, closing the door behind me. My hands lift almost automatically, my fingers shaping the words carefully. I need to tell you something.
His gaze stays on me, steady, unreadable. “I know,” he says, his voice quiet but certain.
The words stop me for a moment. My hands falter. I study his face, looking for some sign that he’s only guessing, but there’s no hesitation in him.
I shake my head slightly, the faintest crease in my brow. You can’t know.
His mouth curves, not in amusement but in something sharper, something more deliberate. “I know,” he says again. “But I want to hear you say it.”
The words settle between us, heavier than the space they take.
My pulse is steady but loud in my ears. I hesitate, my hands lifting again before I pause. My signs feel too small for this, too safe.
Giovanni leans back slightly, his eyes still fixed on mine. “No,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “Not with your hands. I want to hear you say it.”
The room feels closer suddenly, the air tighter. I draw in a breath, my throat dry. The words are heavier than I thought they would be, but I let them form anyway.
My lips part, the air catching in my throat before the sound finds its way out. “A…Ammm…” The last word is heavier, slower, broken by the uneven catch of my breath. “Bwe…bwe…nnant.”
The words are unsteady and badly slurred, but they’re out, and I pray he understands them.
Giovanni doesn’t move at first. His eyes hold mine, the stillness in him sharp, deliberate. Then, slowly, his expression shifts, the edges softening in a way I haven’t seen often.
For the first time in days, the weight I’ve been carrying feels like it might be lighter.
His stillness doesn’t break. It holds between us in the air, until the softening in his expression deepens into something I don’t have a name for.
“Liliana,” he says my name like it’s an answer to something he hasn’t asked aloud.
I don’t move. My hands are still, my breath even but shallow. I don’t know what I expected from him. Shock, maybe. Silence. But not this.
His hand comes to my jaw, his touch steady, his thumb brushing lightly against my skin. “You’re pregnant.” It’s not a question. His voice is quieter now, the edge he so often carries nowhere to be found.
I nod once.
For a long moment, he just looks at me. His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t drop. Then he exhales slowly, the sound controlled but heavy. His other hand comes to my waist, his palm settling there like he means to anchor me in place.
“I’m glad,” he says. The words are simple, but there’s something underneath them, a weight I can feel in the way his voice catches faintly.
The knot in my chest tightens. My hands lift automatically, shaping the thoughts I’ve been carrying for days. I’m scared.
His eyes hold mine. “Of what?”
My signs are slower this time. I don’t know if I can do this.
“You can,” he says without hesitation, the certainty in his voice quiet but firm.
You don’t know, I sign, my fingers sharper now. The worry I’ve kept pressed down feels heavier suddenly. I don’t know what this will be for you, for us.
“I know exactly what it will be,” he says. His hand at my jaw slides back, fingers threading lightly into my hair. “It will be ours.”
The simplicity of it is almost startling. I feel my breath catch, my hands faltering before I can answer.
He watches me for a moment, his gaze steady. “You think I’m not ready for this. You think I’ll see it as something to be managed.” His voice is quieter now, but the conviction in it doesn’t fade. “But I want this. I want you. I want both of you.”
The words settle in me, low and certain, but the worry doesn’t vanish entirely. My hands move again, slower now. What if something goes wrong?
His expression shifts, his jaw tightening faintly, but his voice stays even. “Then we face it. Together.”
I look at him, my chest tight, the words I can’t form caught somewhere between my hands and my throat.
“You’ve been carrying this alone,” he says. It’s not an accusation, just a truth. His thumb brushes along my cheekbone, his touch steady, grounding. “You don’t have to anymore.”
I nod, the motion small but certain. My breath moves easier now, though my chest still feels heavy with everything I haven’t said.
He doesn’t press. He never does when he knows I’m holding something I’m not ready to release. Instead, he leans in, his mouth brushing mine in a kiss that’s slow, deliberate.
The tension I’ve been holding in my shoulders eases without my permission. His hand slides to the back of my neck, the other still firm at my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.
The kiss deepens, but it’s different from others we’ve shared. There’s no edge, no urgency sharpened by the need to prove something. It’s quiet, steady, the kind of connection that feels like it’s meant to last.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “I’m glad you told me,” he says, his voice low.
I almost tell him I waited too long, but the thought feels distant now, blurred by the weight of his hand still holding me close.
He doesn’t let me go. His touch shifts, slow but deliberate, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine through the thin fabric of my dress. “Come upstairs,” he says quietly.
I don’t hesitate.
The walk is silent, the steady sound of our steps folding into the stillness of the halls. When we reach his room, he closes the door with the same controlled ease he carries everywhere, but there’s a shift in him now.
His hands find my waist again, guiding me toward the bed. I move without resistance, my breath catching faintly as he lowers me onto the mattress.
He doesn’t rush. His movements are measured, his gaze on mine even as his fingers trace the line of my jaw, the curve of my collarbone. It’s different this time. There’s no demand in the way he touches me, only something quieter, heavier.
When his mouth finds mine again, the kiss is slow. His weight settles over me carefully, as though he’s aware of every shift, every place where his body meets mine. His hand slides to my hip, his thumb pressing lightly into my skin like he’s grounding me there.
My fingers find his shirt, pulling at the fabric until it gives, the sound of it parting from his skin quiet in the stillness. He lets me, his own movements unhurried as he works at the fastenings of my dress.
When it falls away, his gaze drops briefly before returning to mine. His hand comes to rest at my stomach, the touch light, almost reverent.
“This is ours,” he says again, his voice low.
I nod, my throat too tight for signs.
His mouth lowers to my neck, his breath warm against my skin, his touch steady as he moves over me. The pace stays slow, unhurried, every movement deliberate, like he means to make sure there’s no space for doubt here.
When he enters me, it’s careful, measured. His hand finds mine, his fingers lacing through mine as he moves. The rhythm is unhurried, each shift in his hips deliberate, his mouth finding mine between breaths.
The tension in my chest loosens with every slow press of his body against mine. My free hand slides to his shoulder, my fingers curling there as the steady pace draws the air from my lungs.
He keeps his eyes on me, the steady weight of his gaze holding me there with him. There’s no rush, no urgency, just the quiet steadiness of him moving with me, grounding me in every moment.
When it builds, it’s slow. A gradual pull that leaves me breathless when it finally breaks, my body tightening around him. He follows, his breath sharp against my ear as he stills, holding himself there for a long moment before he eases back.
He doesn’t move far. His weight settles carefully beside me, his arm coming around my waist to draw me in. His mouth presses to my temple, the kiss lingering there.
“You’re mine,” he says quietly. “Both of you.”
I don’t answer, not with words or signs. My hand finds his chest, resting there over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
The room is quiet. The weight in my chest feels different now—not gone, but lighter, steadier.
For the first time in days, the shadow of Vittorio feels far away.