Chapter 26
Cesare
Twenty-eight weeks.
Seven months pregnant. Third trimester. The home stretch.
Paola's belly had grown impossibly large—round and firm, pressing against every shirt she owned. Lucia was active now, kicking visibly through the skin, rolling and shifting at all hours.
Real. So real it took my breath away every time I felt her move.
The letter arrived on a Tuesday morning whilst Paola napped and I worked through quarterly reports Piero had sent over.
Federal inmate mail from the Metropolitan Correctional Center. Matteo's name in the return address.
I stared at it for a long moment before opening it.
Cesare,
It's been four months since your visit. I wanted to update you on my progress—not to ask for anything, but because you said to prove I mean it. So here's the proof:
I completed the addiction recovery program (even though my addiction was to shortcuts, not substances). Dr. Butler and I have been working on understanding why I make the choices I make. Turns out, fear of not being enough makes you do stupid things.
I'm teaching a financial literacy class to other inmates now. Helping guys who never learned to manage money. It's the first time I've used my skills for something that actually helps people instead of just enriching myself.
I heard through my lawyer that Viktor accepted a plea deal. Life without parole. I'm glad. What he did—what I helped him do—he deserves worse. But at least he can't hurt anyone else now.
You told me when you visited that the baby's due soon. I hope everything went well with the pregnancy. I hope Paola is healthy. I hope you're ready to be a father (though no one ever really is).
I'm up for parole review in eighteen months. My lawyer thinks I have a decent shot at early release if I keep doing the work. If that happens, I'd like to take you up on your offer to talk. To maybe, someday, meet your child.
But only if you still think I've earned it.
Thank you for visiting. For not writing me off completely. It gave me something to work toward.
Matteo
I read it twice. Then a third time.
The remorse felt genuine. Real. Not the manipulative apology of someone trying to reduce their sentence, but actual accountability.
When Paola woke, I showed her the letter.
She read it silently, her hand resting on her belly where Lucia kicked and rolled.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"I think he sounds like someone trying to change. Whether he'll succeed—" She shrugged. "Time will tell."
"Should I respond?"
"Do you want to?"
I thought about it. About grudges and second chances. About the man I wanted to be for Lucia—someone who believed redemption was possible.
"Yeah. I think I do."
That evening, I wrote back. Brief. Careful. But opening a door I'd previously slammed shut.
Matteo,
Your letter arrived. I'm glad to hear about the progress. Teaching other inmates is good work—keep doing it.
Viktor is in ADX Florence. He'll die there. That chapter is closed.
The baby is due in twelve weeks. We're ready. Nervous, but ready.
Keep doing the work. If you get early release, we'll talk. You can meet the baby. Maybe even be part of this family again.
Maybe.
Prove you mean it.
Cesare
I mailed it before I could second-guess the decision.
Paola found me afterwards, wrapped her arms around me from behind. "That was kind. Giving him hope."
"Or stupid."
"Kind," she insisted. "Lucia should grow up knowing that people can change. That second chances exist."
"Even for people who betray us?"
"Especially for them. Otherwise, what's the point?"
The baby shower happened two weeks later—thirty weeks pregnant, Paola enormous and glowing, our penthouse transformed into a celebration.
Anna and Piero had coordinated everything. Pink and gold decorations. Tables laden with food. Games I didn't understand involving measuring Paola's belly with toilet paper and guessing baby food flavors.
"This is ridiculous," Paola laughed as Anna blindfolded her for some game involving diapers and chocolate.
"This is tradition," Anna countered. "Every baby shower has terrible games."
Giovanni arrived carrying a large wrapped box, his expression nervous.
He'd been showing up regularly over the past month—always respectful, always asking permission, always trying. Paola had slowly, carefully let him into our lives.
For Lucia's sake, she'd said. Because every child deserves grandparents who love them.
"This is for the nursery," Giovanni said, handing Paola the gift. "I thought—well, I hope you like it."
Inside was a hand-knit blanket. Soft yellow wool with tiny white flowers embroidered along the border.
"Did you make this?" Paola asked, voice catching.
"I learned. From YouTube videos. It's not perfect, but—"
"It's beautiful, Papa. Thank you."
The moment between them was tender. Healing. Not complete—that would take time—but genuine.
Later, after games and cake and entirely too many gifts, Piero stood to give a speech.
"I'm not good with words," he started. "But I wanted to say—Lucia is the luckiest kid in the world. She's got Cesare as a father, which means she'll be protected and loved and probably spoiled. She's got Paola as a mother, which means she'll be strong and kind and way smarter than the rest of us."
Everyone laughed.
"And she's got me as Uncle Piero, which means she'll have someone to teach her how to break rules and get away with it."
"Absolutely not," I said.
"Too late. Already planning the fun uncle activities." Piero's expression softened. "But seriously—welcome to the world, Lucia. We've been waiting for you. And we're going to love you so much."
Paola was crying. Anna was crying. Even Giovanni looked suspiciously misty-eyed.
After everyone left—after the gifts were piled in the nursery and the decorations taken down—Paola collapsed on the couch, exhausted.
"That was perfect," she said. "Exactly what I needed."
"You're exhausted."
"I'm pregnant. I'm always exhausted." She patted the couch beside her. "Come here."
I sat, and she immediately curled against my side, her belly pressing into my ribs.
"Two and a half months," she murmured. "Ten weeks until we meet her."
"Are you scared?"
"Terrified. You?"
"Absolutely."
"Good. We're a team in our terror."
Lucia kicked hard enough that I felt it through Paola's shirt. "She's awake."
"She's always awake when we're talking. I think she likes your voice."
I placed my hand on the bump, felt another strong kick. "Hi, Lucia. Did you enjoy your party? Everyone's so excited to meet you."
Another kick, right where my hand rested.
"She heard you," Paola said softly.
"She's going to be so loved. By all of us."
"She already is."
At thirty-two weeks, I called a meeting. My inner circle—Piero, Giulio, Rocco, the senior capos.
They gathered in my office, confusion evident. I rarely called formal meetings anymore.
"I'm stepping back," I announced without preamble. "Effective immediately, Piero assumes operational control of the family. I remain in an advisory capacity, but day-to-day decisions are his."
Silence.
Then Piero: "Cesare, are you sure—"
"I'm sure. My daughter is coming in eight weeks. My wife needs me present, not distracted by empire business. And you're ready. You've been ready for months."
"What if I mess up?"
"Then you'll fix it. Like I did. Like our father did. You're a Monti. You'll figure it out."
Giulio spoke up. "The families will respect this?"
"They'll respect that I'm choosing my family over power. That's what leaders do—prioritize what actually matters."
After the capos left, Piero and I sat in the office, processing.
"This is really happening," he said. "You're really giving me the empire."
"I'm really choosing my family. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yeah. The empire will always be here. My daughter's childhood happens once. I'm not missing it."
Piero was quiet for a moment. "I'm scared I'll let you down."
"You won't. And if you need help, I'm here. Just not running everything anymore."
"What if—"
"Piero." I gripped his shoulder. "You've been my underboss for six years. You know this business inside and out. You're ready. I trust you."
"Okay. Okay." He took a breath. "I can do this."
"I know you can."
After he left, the relief was overwhelming. The weight I'd been carrying for years—the empire, the responsibility, the constant pressure—lifted.
I'd chosen. Family over power. Paola and Lucia over everything else.
And it felt right.
The scare came at thirty-four weeks.
I was in the kitchen making dinner when Paola gasped from the living room.
"Cesare—"
I found her gripping the back of the couch, face pale, breathing hard.
"Contraction," she managed. "Strong one."
My heart stopped. "How strong?"
"Really strong. And—" Another one hit. She doubled over, groaning.
Too early. Five weeks too early.
I grabbed my phone, already calling Dr. Lin whilst helping Paola to the car.
"Contractions started fifteen minutes ago," I said when the doctor answered. "They're three minutes apart. She's thirty-four weeks."
"Bring her in. We'll check if it's real labor or Braxton Hicks."
The drive to the hospital was the longest ten minutes of my life. Paola had three more contractions in the car, each one making her cry out.
"It's okay," I kept saying, knowing it might not be. "We're almost there."
At the hospital, they got her into a room immediately. Monitors attached, Dr. Lin examining while I held Paola's hand.
"Good news," Dr. Lin finally said. "These are Braxton Hicks. Practice contractions. Uncomfortable but not actual labor."
The relief nearly knocked me over.
"They feel like labor," Paola said weakly.
"They can. Especially this strong. But your cervix hasn't changed. Baby's heartbeat is perfect. This is just your body practicing for the real thing."
"When will the real thing happen?"
"Could be tomorrow. Could be six weeks. But Paola—you're full term in three weeks. If you do go into labor early, we're in good shape."
We went home shaken but relieved. Lucia was okay. Paola was okay.
But it was a reminder: any day now. Our daughter could arrive any day.
At thirty-five weeks, I found Paola in the nursery at 3 a.m., folding tiny clothes.
"Can't sleep?" I asked from the doorway.
She startled. "I was just—the clothes were a mess. I needed to organize them."
The clothes had been perfectly organized yesterday.
"You're nesting."
"I'm preparing."
"You've reorganized this room four times this week."
"It wasn't right before."
I crossed to her, took the tiny onesie from her hands, set it down. "Talk to me. What's really going on?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm scared. She's coming so soon and I don't know if I'm ready. What if I can't do this? What if I'm a terrible mother? What if—"
"Paola." I pulled her close, carefully mindful of the belly between us. "You're going to be an amazing mother. You already are."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've watched you for seven months. How you talk to her. How you take care of yourself for her sake. How you're already putting her first."
"That's just pregnancy stuff."
"That's motherhood. And you're already incredible at it."
She cried against my shoulder whilst I held her, rubbing her back, whispering reassurances.
"I'm terrified too," I admitted. "Of being a father. Of messing this up. Of not being what she needs."
"Really?"
"Really. But we'll figure it out together. Like we've figured out everything else."
We stood in the nursery—perfectly organized now, waiting for our daughter—and held each other.
"The hospital bag is packed," Paola said after a while.
"I know. I watched you pack it. And repack it. Twice."
"Just making sure we have everything."
"We do. Birth plan's written. Car seat's installed. Everything's ready."
"Except us."
"We're as ready as we'll ever be."
She pulled back, looked up at me. "Two to five weeks. That's all that's left."
"Any day now."
"Any day now we meet her."
Lucia kicked hard between us, as if reminding us she was listening.
"Hi, sweetheart," I said to the bump. "We're ready for you. Whenever you want to make your appearance, we're ready."
Another kick.
Paola laughed through her tears. "She's saying 'Good. Because I'm coming soon.'"
"Then we'll be here. Waiting. So excited to meet you, Lucia."
We stood together in the nursery, hands on Paola's belly, talking to our daughter.
Any day now.
Any day we'd become parents.
And despite the fear, despite the uncertainty—I couldn't wait.