Chapter 19
Vittorio
Eight months had passed since we'd abandoned our old life.
I stood at the kitchen window, coffee forgotten in my hand, watching Sophie move through our small garden.
Her belly was beautifully round now, straining against the light cotton dress that fluttered in the coastal breeze.
She moved more carefully these days, one hand often resting protectively on her stomach as she bent to pluck a weed or harvest the herbs she'd insisted on planting.
"I’m growing food for our baby," she'd declared four months ago, hands on her hips, daring me to disagree. I didn’t. Instead, I'd built her raised beds and ordered the richest soil available.
Her laugh carried across our property, bright and uninhibited as she discovered something in the garden—probably another of the tiny lizards she'd become oddly fond of.
That sound still caught me off guard sometimes.
In our old life, laughter had been rare, a luxury we couldn't afford. Now, it filled our home daily.
I set my coffee down and stepped onto the terrace.
The Mediterranean stretched before us, impossibly blue against the whitewashed walls of our villa.
We'd chosen this remote stretch of coastline in southern Portugal carefully—far from the East Coast, accessible but private, a place where we could raise our son in peace.
My secure phone vibrated in my pocket. I tensed instinctively, old habits refusing to die completely. Eight months of safety hadn't erased decades of vigilance.
The message was from Enzo, arriving through channels so secure and circuitous that tracing it would be nearly impossible. I scanned it quickly, muscle memory from my previous life.
Transition complete. Organization stable. Legitimate businesses showing 18% growth. All loose ends secured. No inquiries about your location in 126 days. Your new identities remain clean. We're good, boss. We don't need you anymore.
A postscript followed: Lila sends her love to Sophie. Says to tell her the garden better have tomatoes.
I deleted the message, then initiated the security protocol that would wipe the phone's memory. Eight months ago, I'd have considered this information merely strategic. Now, it felt like the final weight lifting from my shoulders.
Sophie looked up from her gardening, shielding her eyes against the sun. Even from this distance, I could see the question in her gaze.
"It's Enzo," I called. "Everything's settled. No one's looking for us anymore."
She abandoned her basket of herbs and walked toward me, one hand supporting her lower back. At eight months, every movement had become deliberate, measured.
"You're sure?" she asked when she reached me, her eyes searching mine for any hint of deception. Old habits died hard for her, too.
I brushed a strand of red hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "I'm sure. It's really over, Sophie. We're truly free."
Her smile bloomed slowly, like the sunrise we watched together each morning. She leaned into me, her belly pressing against mine, our child between us.
"Free," she repeated, testing the word as if it might dissolve on her tongue. "I'm not sure I remember what that feels like."
I kissed her forehead. "Then we'll learn together."
The nursery had become my sanctuary over the past months. Where once I'd found solace in violence and control, I now found it in the patient work of my hands—sanding wood until it was satin-smooth, measuring twice before cutting, applying coat after coat of non-toxic paint.
I'd built everything myself: the crib with its gently curved rails, the changing table with clever storage compartments, the rocking chair where Sophie already spent hours reading aloud to our unborn son.
Even the small bookshelf was filled with children's books in three languages—English, Italian, and Portuguese.
Our son would know his heritage but wouldn't be defined by it.
The afternoon light slanted through the windows as I hung the final piece—a mobile of hand-carved wooden boats and fish that would drift above the crib. I'd worked on it secretly during the evenings after Sophie had fallen asleep, each piece shaped and smoothed with care.
I stepped back to assess my work. The room was painted in soft blues and whites, reminiscent of the ocean that surrounded us.
A large rug in a deeper blue covered the tile floor.
On the walls hung framed illustrations from children's books and photographs of coastlines from around the world—places we might take him someday.
The irony wasn't lost on me. These hands that had once broken bones and pulled triggers had created this peaceful haven. I looked down at my palms, calloused now from woodworking rather than violence.
"It's beautiful."
I turned to find Sophie in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the frame, her face soft with wonder. She'd changed into loose linen pants and one of my shirts, her hair pulled back in a messy knot.
"You finished the mobile," she said, crossing to the crib. "When did you have time for this?"
"While you were sleeping." I joined her, standing close enough to feel her warmth. "You've been tired lately."
She reached up to touch one of the carved boats, setting the entire mobile in gentle motion. "Growing your son is exhausting work, Marcus."
I placed my hand on her belly, feeling the strong kick that followed. "He's active today."
"He never stops." She covered my hand with hers. "Like his father—always moving, always planning."
I smiled at the comparison. "Let's hope he inherits your patience instead."
She laughed, the sound filling the nursery with life. "We still haven't decided on his name."
We'd been circling this conversation for weeks, each of us hesitant to finalize this most important decision. Names had power—we both understood this truth deeply.
"What about Luca?" she suggested, her eyes on the mobile still turning gently above the crib. "It means 'light' in Italian."
"Luca," I repeated, testing it. Not a family name—we'd agreed on that. Nothing to tie him to the Ricci legacy.
Sophie turned to face me, her eyes serious now. "A name for a boy who'll never know darkness."
I felt something tighten in my chest—not pain, but a fullness I was still learning to recognize. I placed both hands on her belly, feeling our son shift beneath my touch.
"Luca Blackwood," I said softly. "It's perfect."
Dr. Martinez had been carefully selected—a retired obstetrician who valued discretion and had agreed to handle Sophie's delivery privately.
His small clinic overlooking the ocean was only fifteen minutes from our villa.
It was staffed with nurses who asked no questions about the wealthy foreign couple who'd appeared in their small coastal town.
"Everything looks excellent," he assured us during our final appointment, helping Sophie sit up after her examination. "The baby is in perfect position, good size, and your blood pressure remains normal. You're ready."
Sophie squeezed my hand, relief evident in her face. Despite our careful preparations and the doctor's confidence, I knew she'd been worried. Neither of us took safety for granted anymore.
"Any day now," Dr. Martinez continued, making notes in Sophie's file. "Though first babies often take their time. Don't rush to the clinic with the first contraction—wait until they're regular and about five minutes apart."
I nodded, mentally reviewing the route to the clinic, alternative routes, and security measures I'd implemented. Old habits.
Sophie caught my expression and smiled knowingly. "He's calculating escape routes again," she told the doctor.
Dr. Martinez laughed. "Most new fathers do. Though usually they're planning routes to the hospital, not escape strategies."
If he only knew.
We drove home along the coastal road, windows down to catch the sea breeze. Sophie was quiet, her hand resting on her belly, her gaze on the endless blue of the ocean.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked, reaching across to take her hand.
"How different everything is from what I imagined." She turned to look at me. "A year ago, I was planning to disappear with evidence against your brother. Now, I'm having your baby in Portugal."
"Regrets?" I kept my voice neutral, though the question was anything but.
She shook her head. "Not one. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be."
That evening, we walked along our private stretch of beach as the sun began its descent toward the horizon.
Sophie had insisted on these daily walks, claiming they helped with the discomfort of late pregnancy.
I suspected she also cherished these quiet moments together before our lives changed forever.
She wore one of my shirts over her bathing suit, the white fabric billowing around her in the breeze. Her hair had lightened from the sun, streaks of gold now running through the red. Her skin was freckled and tanned—so different from the pale woman I'd first encountered in that rainy alley.
We found our usual spot, a smooth rock outcropping where we could sit comfortably and watch the sunset. I helped her settle, then sat behind her, my legs on either side of hers, my chest supporting her back.
"I never get tired of this view," she murmured as the sky began to bleed orange and pink.
I pressed a kiss to her temple. "Neither do I."
We sat in comfortable silence as the sun dipped lower, painting the water in impossible colors. Sophie leaned more heavily against me, her breathing deep and content.
Then suddenly, she stiffened, her hand gripping my arm with surprising strength.
"Vittorio," she whispered, her voice tight. "I think it's time."
I froze, my mind racing through possibilities. "Are you sure? Dr. Martinez said first babies usually—"
"I'm sure," she interrupted, shifting uncomfortably. "My water just broke."
As if confirming her words, a contraction visibly tightened her belly under my hands. She inhaled sharply, her fingers digging into my arm.
"Breathe through it," I murmured, falling back on the instructions from the books we'd read together. "That's it, just breathe."
When the contraction passed, I helped her to her feet, supporting her weight as we began the walk back to the house. She moved slowly, pausing twice more for contractions before we reached the villa.
"They're still far apart," she said as we entered the cool interior. "We have time."
I nodded, already mentally checking off the preparations we'd made. Hospital bag by the door. Car keys in my pocket. Phone charged. Routes memorized.
Sophie placed her hand on my cheek, drawing my attention back to her face. "Marcus. Vittorio," she said softly. "We're about to become parents."
The realization hit me with unexpected force. In all my years as Vittorio Ricci, I'd been many things—son, brother, soldier, Capo, Underboss, and Don. I'd killed men and commanded empires. I'd built fortunes and destroyed lives.
But this—this was different. This was the most important transformation of all.
I was about to become a father. Not the kind of father who ruled through fear and manipulation, as my own had been. Not a man who saw his child as an heir to a bloody legacy.
Just a father. A man who would teach his son to swim in the cove below our home. Who would show him how to build things with his hands. Who would love him fiercely and protect him always.
As Sophie's next contraction began, I held her steady, our foreheads pressed together, breathing in unison.
"We're ready," I told her. "Luca is coming home."