Chapter 32 JENNA #2
My hands fly to my stomach, where he lived for nine wonderful months.
Even though it was scary, heartbreaking, and painful, it was the best time of my life.
I loved the baby inside me with all my heart.
How could I not? What Massimo and I had shared…
it was the world. It was everything. No matter the reason he left me, I carried our love long after the answers disappeared.
I swallow hard, fighting the pull of the past, trying not to get dragged back into the emotional quagmire I barely survived ten years ago.
"Days before the wedding," I manage, my voice already fraying at the edges, "I finally worked up the courage to go to your uncle's mansion."
My hands are shaking now. I curl them together in my lap as if to physically hold myself in place.
"It was the only place I could think of to go find you.
The last door that might still open. I didn't care about consequences anymore.
I didn't care who saw me or what it would cost. I just…
I had to know why. Why you left…" My throat tightens, "…
me." I wipe at my eyes, but the tears keep coming, stubborn and relentless.
God, this hurts more than I thought it would.
Because walking up to those gates, I'd still had hope.
Stupid, humiliating hope. I laugh weakly; the sound is jagged.
"I told myself there had to be a reason.
A reasonable one. That maybe you'd been sent away.
Europe. Some emergency. Anything." My chest aches as I breathe.
"I was willing to believe anything. I was ready to forgive everything.
" Another tear slips free, and I don't bother stopping it.
"If only I'd known you still wanted me," I whisper.
"If there'd been even the smallest chance you were coming back, then maybe I wouldn't have had to go through with it.
" My voice cracks completely now. "Maybe I wouldn't have had to marry a man I didn't love.
Maybe I wouldn't have had to stand there and pretend my heart wasn't already buried. "
I press my hand to my stomach, muscle memory from a lifetime ago.
"I wasn't asking for forever," I finish quietly. "I was just begging not to be alone."
All the defiance I've been clinging to—every scrap of pride, every hard-earned layer of control—breaks at once.
Not cracks. Breaks. Like a dam giving way under too much water, too many years.
Suddenly I'm there again. Eighteen. Pregnant.
Terrified. Standing on the edge of a life I never chose, about to marry a man I hate because there is no one left to save me from it.
The memory hits so hard my knees start to shake.
I lose it. My shoulders heave, violently and uncontrollably, like my body has finally decided it's done pretending.
The stupid croissant slips from my fingers and hits the floor, forgotten, meaningless. I don't even notice.
Massimo is there instantly. One moment I'm breaking alone, the next he's on his knees in front of me, arms wrapping around me like he's been waiting ten years for this exact second.
Strong arms. Solid. Real. Arms I needed so badly back then, it still hurts to remember.
For one fragile, treacherous moment, I let myself pretend those ten years never happened.
I lean into him, collapse against his chest, and everything I've held inside pours out.
I cry the ugly kind of cry, the kind that wrecks your dignity, that comes with deep, shuddering sobs and hiccupped breaths you can't catch.
I sound broken because I am broken. I clutch at him like he's the only thing left standing in a hurricane, like if I let go, the world will swallow me whole.
And he holds me. He doesn't rush me. He doesn't shush me, or tell me to breathe, or try to fix it.
He just holds me, tight and unyielding, like he's anchoring me to the ground while everything else falls apart.
For the first time in ten years, I'm not alone in the wreckage. And that almost hurts the most.
Suddenly—
"Let go!"
Tiny fists slam into Massimo's back, fast and furious, the blows more indignant than painful but full of absolute conviction.
"Let go of my mummy," Amauri shouts, his voice shaking with fury and fear. "Don't hurt her!"
The world snaps back into focus. Massimo freezes.
Not slowly. Not cautiously. Instantly. Like a man who has just realized he's holding something sacred the wrong way.
I feel it before I see it, the way his arms loosen, not dropping me, never that, but easing as if he's afraid any sudden movement might shatter something irreparable.
I suck in a breath, my sobs stuttering to a stop as I turn.
Amauri is standing behind him, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight his knuckles are white.
His eyes are blazing. Protective. Wild. Too old for his small face. My heart breaks all over again.
"Amauri," I whisper, reaching for him.
Massimo moves at the same time, but he stops himself, catches the instinct mid-motion, and sinks back onto his heels instead. He turns slowly, deliberately, bringing himself down to Amauri's level like a man approaching a skittish animal.
"I'm not hurting her," he explains in a rough voice that has been stripped of command. "I would never hurt her."
Amauri doesn't lower his fists. He steps in front of me instead. Full shield.
"I heard her crying," he says, chin lifting defiantly. "You made her cry."
That lands harder than any accusation in the world. Massimo swallows. I see it, see something old and dangerous and helpless flicker across his face.
"I didn't mean to," He admits quietly.
I pull Amauri into my arms, pressing my face into his hair, breathing him in until my hands stop shaking.
"It's okay," I murmur. "I promise. I'm okay. Massimo didn't make me cry."
He doesn't fully relax, but he leans into me, one arm still angled outward like he's ready to fight if he has to.
Massimo watches us, really watches this time.
Not as a don. Not as a man reclaiming territory.
But as a father. I watch the realization hit him with brutal clarity: his son learned how to protect me long before anyone taught him how to protect himself.
"I'm sorry," Massimo says again, and this time the words are for both of us. Amauri studies him, weighing something far too heavy for a child to carry.
"It wasn't Massimo's fault," I kiss Amauri's forehead. "Mummy just remembered something painful from the past, and Massimo tried to make me feel better."
Amauri's eyes search my face with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. It's uncanny. The focus. The weighing of truth. It's the same look Massimo wore earlier, measuring, deciding, unafraid of what he might find. Goosebumps rise along my arms.
"Is that true?" Amauri asks quietly, looking from me to Massimo.
The room holds its breath. Massimo doesn't hesitate. He crosses himself, solemnly, old-world, deadly sincere. "The whole truth," he says. "I swear."
Amauri studies us both again, deep in thought, like a tiny judge presiding over something far bigger than pancakes and cartoons. For a long second, I don't dare move. Then he nods. Satisfied.
He lets go of me, and the tension drains out of his small body as quickly as it came. His gaze shifts past us; his eyes light up. "Are those pancakes?"
And just like that, the world exhales.