Chapter 29
Sera
Three months.
Three months since Gabe tried to take me. Three months since I chose Adrian completely. Three months of learning what it means to be his wife in every sense.
And now, at thirty-three weeks pregnant, our son could arrive any day.
I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and Adrian's hand on my stomach.
Not possessive. Not claiming. Just resting there. Like he's checking to make sure we're both still here.
His fingers are moving slowly, caressing the skin. I sigh at the feeling. It's nice.
"You're awake," I murmur, not opening my eyes yet.
"I've been awake for an hour."
"Why didn't you get up?" I snuggle deeper into the warmth of his body. It's a rare occurrence that he is still here when I wake up, and I plan to enjoy it.
"It's Saturday." His thumb strokes lazy circles over my belly. "And I'm exactly where I want to be."
I open my eyes to find him propped on one elbow, watching me. His hair is messy from sleep. He's shirtless. And he's looking at me like I'm the only thing that exists in this moment.
"You've been staying home a lot lately," I whisper into his chest. "Is that going to be a problem?"
"Let it be a problem." His voice is firm. "Bianca called three times yesterday. Leo's been handling the shipments. The business doesn't stop just because I'm not there every second."
"But—"
"But nothing. I spent ten years putting business first. Work first. Power first." His hand presses firmer on my stomach. "And I almost lost you. Almost lost him. So if Bianca's pissed that I'm choosing Saturday mornings with my wife over another meeting? Let her be pissed."
Something warm unfolds in my chest. "Adrian Nero, are you being romantic?"
"I'm being practical. You're thirty-three weeks pregnant. Things could happen at any time."
I laugh. "Are you nervous?"
He lifts a brow in challenge. "I'm the heir to a mafia family. I'm never nervous."
This makes me laugh harder, and I fall further into the easy warmth of the moment—until I remember something.
"We need to pick out a name!" I exclaim, sitting up. "We started talking about names when we went shopping, but we never settled on one."
"Shhh." He caresses my hair. "We have time."
I nestle into his side, my belly pressed against him. At thirty-three weeks, I'm not huge, but I'm definitely pregnant. The doctor keeps saying I'm measuring small, that I need to gain more weight. But our son is healthy. Active. He kicks constantly, especially at night.
Right now, he's quiet. Content.
"Italian names," I say. "Obviously. He's a Nero."
"Obviously." Adrian's voice rumbles against my ear. "What are you thinking?"
"I don't know. My name is..." I trail off. "Unique."
"You don't like it?"
I chuckle. "It was hard to spell."
"Something short then."
I nod.
"Matteo," Adrian suggests. "Gift of God. Strong. Classic."
"I like that. What about Lorenzo?"
"Too soft."
"Marco?"
"There's a Marini named Marco, so pass."
I laugh. "Okay, what about... Leonardo? We could call him Leo."
"After my consigliere? Absolutely not."
"Alessandro?"
"Maybe. Keep going."
We lie there, trading names back and forth. Some serious. Some ridiculous. It feels normal. Domestic. I love it.
"What about naming him after your father?" I ask carefully.
The mood shifts immediately. Adrian goes still beside me.
"No."
"Why not? It's tradition, isn't it? To name the firstborn son after—"
"I said no." His voice is hard now. Final.
I prop myself up on my elbow to look at him. "Adrian—"
"My father was not a good man, Seraphina. I told you that. I'm not naming my son after him."
There's something in his voice. Something dark and angry and painful.
"Tell me," I say quietly. "Tell me about him."
"Why?"
"Because I want to understand. Because if we're going to raise a child together, I need to know." I touch his face. "Tell me."
He's silent for a long moment. "He beat her."
"What?"
"My father. He beat Bianca. Regularly. And he made me watch."
My blood runs cold. "Adrian—"
"I was eight the first time. Maybe younger, but that was my first memory of it.
He said it was important that I understand what a man does.
How a man controls his household. How a man keeps his woman in line.
" His jaw is tight, every word clipped. "So he'd hit her.
And I'd stand there and watch. And if I looked away, if I tried to leave, he'd hit her harder. "
"Oh my God." Tears are already burning my eyes.
"Sometimes it was just slaps. Sometimes it was worse. He broke her ribs once. Her wrist another time." His voice is frank, but I can hear the rage underneath. "And she never fought back. Never left. Just took it. Let him do it. Let me watch."
"She was probably terrified—"
"She was calculating." His eyes meet mine. "Bianca doesn't do anything without a plan. She let him beat her because she was waiting. Building her network. Making allies. And when the time was right, she had him killed."
I process that, swallowing heavily. "You think she ordered the hit?"
"I know she did. The night he died, Luc was sick. Bianca stayed home with him. Perfect alibi. And Gemma and I were out with my father." He laughs bitterly. "We were getting ice cream. He was actually being... nice. And then one man walked up and shot him."
I remember what Gemma told me. The ice cream shop. The shoelaces. The trauma.
"I watched my father die," Adrian continues. "And all I could think was that Bianca did this. She orchestrated it. She made sure we'd be there to see it. To understand what happens to men who hurt women in this family."
"But you said Gemma saw—"
"Gemma saw her father die. I saw a man who beat my mother die." His voice hardens. "I wasn't sad. I was scared for Gemma. For Luc. For what this meant. But I wasn't sad."
I don't know what to say. Don't know how to process this. That Bianca might have orchestrated her husband's murder. That Adrian witnessed it as a child. That he grew up watching violence every day.
It's no wonder he doesn't know how to love properly. No one ever showed him.
"I hate them both," he says quietly. "My father for what he did. My mother for letting me watch. For using his death to consolidate power. For turning me into..." He trails off.
"Into what?"
"Into someone just like him."
"You're not like him," I say immediately, and I mean it.
"Aren't I? I forced you to marry me. I control every aspect of your life. I use violence to solve my problems." His eyes are bleak. "How am I different?"
"You've never hit me." I cup his face, forcing him to look at me.
"You've never raised your hand to me. Not once.
Hell, you never even threatened it. Even when I've pushed you.
Even when I've defied you. You've never physically hurt me.
" I leave out the emotional stuff, and from the way his eyes flash, I know he noticed.
"I've wanted to."
I swallow.
"Not in anger," he clarifies. "But to keep you safe. I've thought about chaining you to the fucking bed so I could keep an eye on you."
Adrian—and hell, maybe everyone else—might not see how big a deal it is that he refrained, but I do.
"But you didn't. That's the difference." I lean my forehead against his.
"Your father made you watch because he wanted you to be like him.
But you're not. You're protective, yes. Possessive, absolutely.
And you can be cruel, but you're not sadistic.
You'd never force our son to watch as you beat me. "
"How can you be sure?"
"Because if I thought you'd do that, I would have run, and despite what you think—" I place his hand back on my stomach. "—you're going to be a good father, Adrian. A good husband. Even when I don't agree with your methods."
"I'm going to fuck up. A lot."
"Probably. But you'll try. That's more than your father ever did." I kiss him softly. "And our son needs you. Needs your strength. Needs your protection. But he also needs softness. Needs to know it's okay to be vulnerable. Needs to see that love isn't just control."
"I don't know how to be soft."
"You're being soft right now. Staying home. Lying in bed with me. Planning for our baby." I smile. "You're softer than you think."
He pulls me closer, and I feel him relax slightly against me.
"I'm terrified," I admit. Maybe I need to show Adrian an example of vulnerability. "That I won't be able to prepare him for this life. That I'm too soft. Too weak. That I'll fail him in a different way than Bianca failed you."
"You won't." He's so sure.
"How do you know?"
"Because you're the strongest person I know.
" His hand cradles my face. "You survived me.
Survived this world. You're still here. Still fighting.
Still choosing us." He kisses me, deep and slow.
"Our son is lucky. He's going to have a mother who loves him fiercely.
Who will protect him. Who will teach him that strength isn't just about violence. "
"And a father who will teach him how to survive."
"Yes." His hand slides down my body. "Now let me show you how much I appreciate you."
"Adrian—"
"You said I should be softer." His mouth finds my neck. "But right now, I need to be anything but."
For a moment, we just lie there. Processing. His childhood trauma. My fears about motherhood. The weight of what we're about to become.
Then his hand slides down my body, and I understand. This is how he processes. How he reconnects after vulnerability.
His kiss is demanding, possessive, reclaiming control after being so vulnerable. And I let him. Because I understand. Because opening up like that cost him something. Because this is how he processes emotion—through touch, through claiming, through reminding us both who we are.
His hands are everywhere. Pushing up my nightgown. Spreading my thighs. Finding me already wet.
"You're always ready for me," he growls against my throat.
"You're always touching me," I counter breathlessly.