Chapter 25
Paola
Twenty weeks pregnant.
An unknown number. I almost didn't answer—too early, too tired, Lucia doing somersaults in my belly and making sleep impossible.
But something made me pick up.
"Ms. Lombardo?" A woman's voice. Professional. Careful.
"It's Monti now. Who is this?"
"This is Agent Sarah Hayes with the FBI. I'm calling about your sister, Bianca."
My stomach dropped. "What about her?"
A pause. The kind of pause that means bad news.
"I'm very sorry to inform you that Bianca was found deceased yesterday evening in her apartment in Prague. The local authorities have ruled it an accidental overdose."
The words didn't make sense. Deceased. Overdose. Bianca.
"What?"
"Your sister passed away. I'm so sorry for your loss."
"No. There's—there's been a mistake. Bianca doesn't do drugs. She wouldn't—"
"The Czech police found evidence of prescription medication mixed with alcohol. The medical examiner believes it was accidental, not intentional. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Monti."
I sat down on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to my ear, trying to process.
Bianca was dead.
My twin sister. The person I'd shared a womb with. Who'd drugged me, betrayed me, disappeared.
Dead.
"When?" I managed. "When did it happen?"
"Preliminary estimates put time of death around Sunday evening. A neighbor reported a concerning smell. Local police found her Monday morning."
Two days ago. Bianca had been dead for two days and I hadn't known. Hadn't felt it.
Weren't twins supposed to sense these things?
"The State Department is coordinating the return of her remains. We'll be in touch about arrangements. Again, I'm very sorry for your loss."
After she hung up, I sat in silence, staring at nothing.
Bianca was dead.
I should feel something. Grief. Loss. Something.
Instead, I felt numb.
Cesare appeared in the doorway, already dressed for the day. "Who was that?"
"The FBI." My voice sounded distant, not quite my own. "Bianca's dead. Overdose in Prague. They found her yesterday."
He crossed to me immediately, pulled me into his arms. "Paola—"
"I don't know how I feel," I admitted. "She's my sister. My twin. And I don't know if I'm sad or relieved or angry that she's gone before I could—" Before I could what? Forgive her? Understand her?
"You're allowed to feel complicated things."
"She drugged me. Stole my life. Ran away. And now she's dead. I’ll never get to—" My voice broke.
The tears came then. Not clean grief, but messy, complicated emotion. Anger and loss and guilt all tangled together.
I cried for the sister I'd had as a child. For the person she'd become. For the relationship we'd never repair now.
Cesare held me through it all, one hand on my back, the other on my belly where Lucia kicked—life and death happening simultaneously.
"I need to tell my father," I said eventually, pulling back. "He should know."
"Do you want me to call him?"
"No. I'll do it."
I dialed Giovanni's number with shaking hands.
He answered on the second ring. "Paola?"
"Papa. It's Bianca. She's—" I couldn't say it. "The FBI called. She died. Overdose in Prague."
Silence. Then a sound I'd never heard from my father before.
A sob.
"Papa?"
"My daughter." His voice broke completely. "My baby girl."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Both my daughters—I failed both of you. And now she's—" He couldn't finish.
We cried together over the phone. Father and daughter, grieving the complicated, flawed person who'd connected us and torn us apart.
"There will be arrangements," I said finally. "When they bring her home. A funeral."
"I'll handle it. You shouldn't have to—not whilst you're pregnant."
"Okay."
"Paola?" His voice was raw. "Can I—would it be alright if I came to see you? Today? I know I don't have the right to ask, but—"
I looked at Cesare, who nodded.
"Yes. Come over. We should—we should talk. About Bianca. About everything."
"Thank you. I'll be there this afternoon."
After I hung up, Cesare asked, "Are you okay?"
"No. But I will be."
"Do you want to cancel the ultrasound today? We can reschedule."
The anatomy scan. Twenty weeks. I'd completely forgotten.
"No," I decided. "Life doesn't stop because someone dies. And Bianca wouldn't want—" I stopped. "Actually, I have no idea what Bianca would want. I never really knew her at all."
"You knew the version of her she showed you."
"Which was all lies."
"Not all of it. The childhood you shared—that was real. Whatever came after, you had that."
He was right. Somewhere beneath the betrayal and drugs and running away, there had been a little girl who'd been my best friend. My other half.
And now she was gone.
I placed both hands on my belly, felt Lucia moving beneath my palms. "I'm going to tell her about Bianca. When she's old enough. Not the terrible parts—or not just those. But who Bianca was before everything went wrong."
"That's kind of you."
"It's honest. Bianca was complicated. Flawed. But she was still my sister." Tears threatened again. "And now she'll never meet Lucia. Never get a chance to be Auntie Bianca. Never—"
Cesare pulled me close again. "I know. I'm sorry."
We stood like that, holding each other, grieving the person Bianca could have been if she'd made different choices.
Giovanni arrived that afternoon carrying something large, covered with a blanket.
He looked older than when I'd seen him months ago. Grief had aged him overnight—deeper lines, grayer hair, shoulders bowed under invisible weight.
"Paola." His voice cracked.
I crossed to him, and we held each other. Father and daughter, united in loss.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry, Papa."
"She was my daughter. And I failed her. Just like I failed you."
We sat on the couch, both of us crying, processing the reality that Bianca was gone.
"The funeral will be Friday," Giovanni said eventually. "Small. Private. Just family."
"I'll be there."
He looked at my belly. "You shouldn't have to—in your condition—"
"She was my sister. I'll be there."
We sat in silence for a moment. Then Giovanni gestured to the covered object he'd brought.
"I made this. For Lucia. Before—" His voice broke. "Before I got the news about Bianca. I wanted to bring it anyway. To show you—to show you I'm trying. That I want to be better. For your daughter. For you."
He uncovered it slowly.
The carousel horse.
Intricately hand-carved wood, painted in soft pastels—cream and gold and rose. A masterpiece of craftsmanship. The kind of heirloom passed down through generations.
"Papa," I breathed. "It's beautiful."
"I spent three months carving it. Thinking about Lucia. About being her nonno. About having a chance to do better." His tears fell onto the painted surface. "Bianca will never meet her. Will never have this chance. But I do. And I don't want to waste it."
The grief, the sincerity, the desperate hope—it was all there in his face.
"I forgive you," I said, surprising myself. "Not for Bianca—that's between you and her, wherever she is. But for me. For what you did. I forgive you."
"Why? After everything—"
"Because life's too short. Bianca's gone. We can't get that time back. But we have now. We have Lucia coming. And I'd rather spend that time building something than holding grudges."
"I don't deserve this."
"Probably not. But you're getting it anyway. With conditions."
"Anything." I laid them out—the same boundaries I'd planned before. Honesty. Respect. Therapy. Earning his role as nonno every single day.
He agreed to all of it. Gratefully. Humbly.
"Thank you," he said. "For giving me this chance. I won't waste it. I promise."
After he left—the carousel horse now standing in Lucia's nursery—Cesare found me staring at it.
"You okay?" he asked.
"My sister's dead. My father's trying to be better. I'm halfway through pregnancy with a daughter who'll never meet her aunt." I turned to him. "I have no idea if I'm okay."
"That's fair."
"But I think—maybe—I will be. Eventually."
He pulled me close. "We should get ready for the ultrasound. See our girl."
The anatomy scan was exactly what I needed.
Dr. Lin moved the wand across my belly whilst Cesare and I watched Lucia on screen. So much clearer than early scans. I could see her face—tiny nose, perfect lips, delicate chin. Her hands moved in front of her face, fingers spreading and closing.
"Everything looks perfect," Dr. Lin said, measuring. "Head circumference, femur length, heart chambers—all exactly where they should be for twenty weeks."
After the morning's grief, seeing Lucia healthy and growing felt like a gift.
"She's really okay?" I asked.
"She's more than okay. She's thriving."
We left with ultrasound photos—Lucia's face in profile, her tiny feet, her hands. Proof of life growing despite death.
That evening, after staring at the photos for the hundredth time, I felt it.
The weight of the day. The grief. The forgiveness. The hope. All of it pressing down.
"I need you," I whispered to Cesare.
He understood immediately. "Come here."
He led me to the bathroom. Started the shower—multiple heads activating, steam filling the space instantly.
"We both need to wash this day off," he said.
I nodded, already undressing. The clothes felt heavy with grief and tears.
I wanted them gone.
Cesare undressed too, and we stepped under the water together.
The heat was almost painful at first. I let it cascade over me, washing away the grief, the complicated emotions, the weight of loss. Cesare's hands found me—gentle at first, just washing. Shampoo worked through my hair with careful fingers. Soap sliding across my shoulders, my back, my arms.
Tender. Reverent. Like I was something precious he treasured.
I returned the favor, washing him, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he trembled slightly under my touch.
"I love you," I said. "Even when everything hurts—I love you."
"You're everything," he said, turning me to face him. Water streamed between us. "You and our baby. You're everything."
His mouth found mine. Hungry. Desperate. Claiming.
I kissed him back with equal intensity, the day's grief finally releasing into pure need.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, I said, "Take me to bed."
He turned off the water, grabbed towels. We barely dried off before his hands were on me again, lifting me, carrying me to the bedroom.
The city lights filtered through the windows, painting everything in silver and shadow.
He laid me on the bed carefully, mindful of the bump, his eyes drinking in every inch of me.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured. "Carrying our baby. You're incredible."
"I don't feel incredible. I feel sad and grateful and overwhelmed."
"Then let me make you feel something else."
His mouth traced down my neck, my collarbone, lower. Worshiping every inch with lips and tongue and gentle teeth.
I arched into him, hands tangling in his hair. "Cesare—"
"I've got you," he promised. "I'm going to make you forget everything except this. Except us."
His hands mapped my body with increasing urgency—the curve of my hip, the swell of my breast, the bump where our daughter grew.
"I need you," I breathed. "Please. I need to feel you. Need to know this is real."
He positioned himself carefully, mindful of the pregnancy. Side-lying, his body curved around mine, one hand spreading protectively over my belly.
"Tell me if anything hurts," he said.
"It won't. I need this. Need you."
He entered me slowly, carefully, watching my face for any sign of discomfort.
There was none. Just relief. Completion. Connection.
"God, I missed this," he groaned. "Missed you."
"Then don't be gentle. I need you. All of you."
Something shifted in his expression. The careful control cracked. His grip tightened on my hip, pulling me harder against him. His rhythm increased, each thrust deeper, more demanding.
"Is this what you need?" His voice was rough, graveled with desire barely leashed. "Tell me what you need."
"More. Harder. Make me forget everything except you."
He complied, his hand sliding from my belly to between my legs, fingers finding exactly where I needed him.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I did. His gray eyes burned into mine, intense and possessive and full of everything he couldn't say.
"You're mine," he growled. "Say it."
"Yours. Always yours."
"And I'm yours. No one else's. Just yours."
The declarations wrapped around us like vows. More binding than the ones we'd said in that church months ago.
These were real. Chosen. Ours.
The pressure built inside me, coiling tighter and tighter. His fingers worked in perfect rhythm with his thrusts, his body knowing exactly what I needed.
"Cesare—I'm close—"
"Come for me," he demanded. "Let me feel it."
The orgasm crashed through me, stealing my breath, making me cry out his name.
He followed seconds later, burying himself deep, my name a prayer on his lips.
We collapsed together, hearts pounding, breathing ragged.
For long moments, neither of us moved. Just held each other, feeling the proof of life in racing pulses and trembling muscles.
"I love you," I whispered. "I love you so much."
"I love you too. Both of you." His hand found my belly again, protective and possessive. "My family. My entire world."
Lucia kicked against his palm, as if agreeing.
We both laughed, exhausted and satisfied and happy despite everything.
My sister was gone. My father was trying. My daughter was growing.
Life and death. Ending and beginning. Grief and joy.
All happening at once.
And somehow, impossibly, I was okay.
We were okay.
Twenty weeks down. Twenty to go.
And we'd face them together.