Chapter 5
Paolina
The bell above the diner door jingles, another gust of January wind knifing through before it slams shut. I tuck the pencil behind my ear, balancing a tray with one hand, and paste on the smile I save for customers who think I’m too young or too soft to handle their complaints.
The Formica counter shines with the same greasy sheen as my apron. The smell of frying bacon and burnt coffee seeps into my skin until I swear it comes out of my pores. Plates clatter. Voices rise and fall. A toddler shrieks in delight as her father flips her a sugar packet like it’s treasure.
This isn’t what Papà imagined for his daughter. Not a Corsetti heiress. Not the girl who used to glide through ballrooms under crystal chandeliers, arm locked with Aldo’s, pretending she wanted the life chosen for her.
But I’d rather be a fallen mafia princess slinging hash in Queens than the wife of Aldo Buratti.
I set down the tray with three burgers, balancing it with the grace drilled into me from etiquette classes. “Order up,” I call, sliding ketchup bottles across the table. “Anything else?”
The men grunt, already devouring. My smile fades before I turn.
My back aches from the long shift, but the five months double the ache growing inside me.
The uniform does little to hide the swell of my belly now.
Some customers give me the soft looks reserved for mothers.
Others give me the sharper looks meant for scandal.
I learned not to care.
The baby shifts. A flutter against my ribs, gentle and insistent. My hand presses low to calm us both.
Donatello’s baby.
Heat creeps into my cheeks at the thought of him, uninvited, but always there. It should be shame. But it’s not. It’s the way my body still remembers his weight, his mouth, his voice saying my name like a vow.
I don’t let myself linger. My survival depends on moving forward, not drowning in what already claimed me.
Still, sometimes my mind betrays me. It slips back to that day in the hotel lobby—only hours after I’d run from his bed .
My heart still thundered from leaving the veil, the note, and the man.
The hotel lobby’s marble glistened. I remember freezing at the sight of him near the elevators, jaw shadowed, shirt fresh, eyes scanning the crowd. He was there. Hunting. For me.
“Paolina, come.”
Instinct took over. I bolted.
I ducked behind a German tour group, slipped out the side entrance, cut through alleys I knew from childhood like veins. I never looked back. Not until the bus roared toward Palermo, and I dared to glance through the dirty window, heart hammering, waiting for his obsidian eyes to find me.
They didn’t.
I bought a new passport and a new name from a man who didn’t blink at cash thick enough to choke a horse. Money gets you anything, especially in Sicily if you know which shadows to knock on.
From Palermo, a flight to Paris. From Paris to five months later, I’m Maria Rossi , waitress, American transplant with a questionable accent and swollen belly.
I think of Mamma, and how she’d fuss over me and the baby. The thought twists something sharp in my chest.
The night I left Sicily, I bought a burner phone with cash from Donatello’s duffel. Just one message. Just enough .
I’m safe. I love you. But I’m not coming back. I can’t marry Aldo. I won’t face Papà’s anger. Don’t look for me.
I deleted it after I hit send, tossed the phone out the window as the bus pulled away.
I imagine her reading it in the kitchen, maybe clutching the counter for balance, maybe weeping in silence so Papà doesn’t hear. The guilt claws at me. But the alternative—going back to Aldo or facing Papà’s fury—would have been worse.
Better a daughter gone than a daughter broken.
I wipe down the counter, forcing myself back into the present.
The shift ends after dark. The manager barely nods as I hang my apron on the hook, trading the smell of grease for the stale cold air of the street.
My sneakers slap against pavement wet with melted snow.
Neon signs buzz, taxis honk, and I clutch my worn coat tighter around my middle as I climb three flights of stairs to my studio.
It isn’t much. A single room that smells faintly of mildew no matter how many lavender-scented candles I burn. A rickety bed. Used hot plate. A cracked window. But it’s mine. Mine and my baby’s.
The door clicks shut behind me. I lock both deadbolts out of habit, drop my bag, and rub my swollen feet.
Then the light snaps on.
A scream rips out of me. My heart slams against my ribs.
He sits in the chair by the window, legs spread, hands clasped loosely, like a king on a throne he didn’t even need to build. His presence swallows the room whole.
“W—What are you doing here?” My voice breaks into staccato. “How did you find me?”
Donatello scoffs, rising to his full, terrifying height. “ La bestia alla tua bellezza. The beast to your beauty.”
The nickname slithers around me, a noose made of velvet. My hand flies to my belly as if my palm could shield my baby from the weight in his voice.
His eyes flash. Not just dark obsidian—alive, molten, lethal. “Did you really think you could run from me, bella mia ? Did you think you could keep my child from me?”
Tears sting my lashes. My heart ricochets. I back up until my spine collides with the door with nowhere left to go.
“Donatello—” My plea a hoarse whisper.
He stalks closer, every step measured, deliberate, until his shadow swallows mine.
His hand presses against the door above my head, caging me without even touching.
“You thought you could leave Sicily. Leave me . Disappear. Carry my baby. Tell me, Paolina—” His voice drops, deadly quiet.
“—what kind of fool do you take me for?”
My lip trembles. “I—I only wanted?—”
“You wanted to survive,” he cuts in, sharp. “But survival without me is suicide. And you know it.”
His other hand drops suddenly, cupping the curve of my stomach. My breath seizes. The baby kicks as if answering him. His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring .
“My child,” he growls, reverence tangled with possession. “Our child.”
“Please—” My hands flutter uselessly. “I can’t—I don’t?—”
“You don’t what?” He leans closer, his breath brushing my cheek. “Don’t want me? Don’t want this?”
His thumb strokes over the swell beneath my shirt, slow and deliberate. “Then why does your body still answer mine, bella? Even now.”
Tears spill hot. I shake my head. “I can’t go back.”
“You’re not going back.” His lips curve in something crueler than a smile. “You’re going forward. With me. Always with me.”
The decision is already made. It always is.
He steps back, hand gripping mine before I can resist. He grabs the small bag where I keep my prenatal vitamins, tucks it under his arm. “You take these. Nothing else. Everything else you need—I provide.”
“Donatello—”
“No, Paolina.” His tone silences me. “No more running. No more lies. You are mine. The baby is mine. La famiglia is mine. And now, so are you.”
I stumble as he guides me out the door. He straightens me with ease and continues down the stairs, into the night. A black SUV idles at the curb, sleek and gleaming in the moonlight. A man in a suit opens the door.
My gaze darts around. Dare I call for help? Would my neighbors dare to intervene ?
As if reading my thoughts of escape, Donatello crushes the thought with his grip. His lips hover near my ear, breath burning across my skin.
“Don’t even try it, Paolina. Your days of running are finished.”
He doesn’t release me until we’re inside. The city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow. My breath hitches when a private airfield appears.
The Gulfstream waits like a dark-winged predator. Steps lower, lights glow softly inside. He doesn’t let go until I’m buckled into a leather seat. My bag disappears into a storage bin. His hand returns to mine, possessive and grounding.
The engines roar. My body trembles. Adrenaline drains, leaving exhaustion in its place. My little one moves, probably just as drained as me. I place a calming hand on my belly.
“Are you hungry?”
The question scrapes across my nerves. The thought of eating knots my stomach tighter. My insides feel like a coiled fist. I shake my head and close my eyes, as if shutting out the world will silence him too.
“You don’t look good,” he murmurs, more observation than sympathy. “You’ve lost weight when women gain during pregnancy. The doctor will check you. I’ll make sure you—and our baby—are healthy.”
A sigh is all I can manage—part defiance, part surrender .
Donatello grunts, the sound low and disapproving, like he already knows my silence is temporary.
The engines drone a steady lullaby, and exhaustion drags me under. Sleep claims me despite the fear twisting in my chest.
Mid-flight, he wakes me and leads me into the bedroom suite, a cocoon of cream leather and silk bedding. I sink onto the mattress, too drained to argue, too tired to resist. My eyes flutter.
The last thing I feel is his hand smoothing over my belly again, protective and terrifying all at once.
“You’re safe, bella mia. You and our baby are safe.”
Darkness takes me.
I startle awake at the shift of the mattress beside me.
Donatello is up, broad shoulders outlined against the cabin’s muted glow.
He stands at the window, head bowed slightly, one hand braced against the frame, the other raking through his hair.
For a moment I wonder if he’s wrestling with himself the way I am—with choices, with chains neither of us asked for.
Then he turns, and the storm in his eyes tells me whatever battle rages in him, it won’t change one thing.
Donatello kept his promise. I’m his. And there’s no escape.