Chapter 10
P aolina
The sea is a restless thing tonight. It throws itself against the cliffs below the villa, then drags back with a sound like teeth gnashing in the dark.
I sit on the terrace, the cashmere shawl Donatello bought for me wrapped tight around my shoulders and try to breathe past the unease coiled in my chest.
It’s been two days since he left. He didn’t tell me why. He never tells me where he goes when he boards that helicopter at midnight with his jaw set and eyes hard. But I know.
Aldo.
A month later and the memory of his call still crawls across my skin, his words echoing: dirty slut, I’ll cut that baby from you.
Even now, bile rises at the sound of his voice in my head.
And Donatello—he heard my confession, kissed the top of my head, and tucked me into bed like I was something fragile.
Then he left, carrying fury like a blade in his hand.
It still gnaws at me—how Aldo knew. How he found me here when Donatello took every precaution, when this island is supposed to be untouchable.
Then it clicks. Nora.
Sweet, kind Nora, with her gentle hands and her careful way of checking my blood pressure every morning, her soft humming when she lays the stethoscope against my belly.
She never meant harm. But kindness doesn’t erase carelessness.
I can picture it too clearly: a night off the island, wine flowing too freely, her guard slipping as she boasted to a friend about the employer who paid her in diamonds and discretion.
A runaway Corsetti bride, seven months pregnant, hidden away on a private island.
All it takes is one friend with loose lips of her own, and Aldo has his thread to pull.
I should hate her for it. I can’t. She’s human, weak the way we all are.
Donatello didn’t kill her. He could have. Men have died for smaller mistakes. But when I asked where she went after Aldo’s call, his answer clipped, final. “She’s gone. Fired. No woman dies by my hand unless it’s an extreme situation. ”
That’s their code. Brutal. Absolute.
I can still see Nora’s face in my memory, flushed from drink, laughing too loudly as words she couldn’t take back slipped into the world. Her mistake nearly cost me everything. Yet Donatello only cast her out, sparing her when he would have already scattered a man in her place as dust at sea.
I don’t know whether to be grateful or afraid.
I press both palms to my belly. The baby shifts beneath my skin, strong now, rolling like waves. Eight months. One left until my body is no longer just mine.
“You’ll be safe,” I whisper to the little one. “Your father promised. And when he promises…” My throat closes. “He keeps it.”
The helicopter returns just before dawn. I hear it first—the deep whump-whump of the blades cutting the sky—before I see the lights through the curtains. My pulse jumps. I run a hand through my hair, heart hammering with something that feels too much like relief.
The front doors open, heavy, deliberate. Boots strike marble. I don’t realize I’ve gone to meet him until I’m halfway down the stairs, silk trailing behind me.
Donatello looks carved from stone and shadow, shirt open at the throat, forearms bare except for tattoos. His eyes find mine at once. I stop, breath caught in my chest.
He crosses the foyer without a word, sweeping me into his arms. The scent of soap clings to him, but beneath it—faint, metallic—something darker lingers. I don’t ask. I don’t need to .
“You’re back,” I breathe against his collar.
“Always,” he says, voice low, rough. His palm spreads over my belly, grounding us both. “I told you. You’re safe. He’ll never touch you again.”
A shiver runs through me. My heart knows what my mind fears to name. Aldo is gone. Donatello made sure of it.
He takes my hand and strides towards the stairs.
In the suite, he strips off his suit without hesitation.
The jacket slides from his broad shoulders and lands neatly over a chair.
He works at the buttons of his shirt, revealing olive skin stretched over thick muscle, his chest a wall of strength carved by years of discipline, not vanity.
The play of lamplight catches the hard ridges of his abs, the tattoos on his arms shifting with every movement.
Heat coils low in me as he steps out of his pants, leaving him in a pair of fitted briefs for a moment before pulling on black joggers and a long-sleeve tee.
Even dressed down, he looks lethal, impossibly male.
He isn’t the man you see in glossy magazines, pampered and coiffed.
He is power forged in the streets, in blood, in sweat—and God help me, my body responds to every inch.
He glances over his shoulder as he pushes up the sleeves to reveal his muscular forearms, voice calm. “Tell me about your day.”
The question startles me. Not a command, not a demand. Just him… wanting to know .
“I had yoga,” I manage, forcing my eyes up from the way his shirt stretches across his back. “Swam a little. Read outside.”
“Not too much?” His tone sharpens slightly, protective. “The doctor said your blood pressure was climbing. You’re not to overdo it.”
I swallow, warmth flickering in my chest at his attention. Aldo never noticed me. My father never listened. But Donatello—he sees everything.
“It wasn’t too much.” I respond. “I promise.”
“ Bene. ” He pulls the joggers low on his hips, then strides closer, eyes locked on me. “I want you rested. Fed. Strong. You and our daughter both.”
I swallow against the lump in my throat. No one has ever spoken about me like that—like my wellbeing matters. Like I matter.
“Donatello…” My voice wavers. “Thank you. For caring.”
Something shifts in his eyes, softer, deeper. He brushes a knuckle over my cheekbone, slow, tender. “Of course I care, bella mia. You’re mine.”
God help me. This man is going to break down my defenses.
“Now, how shall we spend our day?”
A chunk crumbles.
“A cruise,” Donatello says, answering himself when I can’t find words. “The yacht is ready. Come.”
The gleaming vessel waits at the private dock, all white lines and chrome against the sapphire-blue sea.
A staff of three bows as we board, quiet and efficient.
I should remember that I’m not free, that this is gilded captivity—but the salty air and sunlight stroking my skin make it hard to think of anything except how alive I feel.
We set out, engines humming, the coastline shrinking behind us until there’s nothing but water in every direction. Donatello gives me a tour and then stops in the main cabin.
“Swim?” he suggests. “Bikinis are in your closet here.”
I follow him, not sure I want to wear a bikini. Even without my big belly, I would never dare wear a skimpy swimsuit. Donatello lifts a handful of barely there pieces from a drawer. I linger in the doorway.
He cocks his head at my hesitation.
“ Bella mia , your body is a lush playground. Never feel any way but sexy around me. I adore every one of your curves.” His gaze skims my body, pausing at my full breasts. His throat works. “My favorite—your tempting tits.”
I gasp. He chuckles.
“Change and we swim.”
On deck, the Sicilian sun paints every one of his muscles in a golden sheen. My mouth goes dry. He glances at me, a smirk tugging at his lips, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I nod, trying to keep my face composed even as heat slides low in my belly. He helps me down the stern ladder and then dives cleanly, cutting through the water like a predator. His head pops up, and he raises his arms for me.
The Med is cool, shocking against my overheated skin. I laugh—really laugh—as I float on my back with the sun warming my face. Donatello surfaces near me, slick hair pushed back, eyes dark with hunger and something softer.
“Careful,” he says. “Don’t drift too far.”
“I can swim,” I protest, kicking away just to tease.
His hand shoots out, circling my wrist. “ Bella mia , you’re carrying my world. You don’t leave my sight.”
My chest flutters in ways I don’t want to name.
When we climb back aboard, towels and chilled lemonade are waiting.
I sink onto a sunbed, the plush cushion cradling me, while Donatello drops beside me with casual grace.
The baby shifts under my palm, rolling, and I whisper nonsense to her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching, reverent, silent.
Lunch comes—fresh grilled fish, olives glistening with oil, tomatoes so sweet they taste like candy. We eat under the canopy. The sea spread endlessly around us.
“You’re quiet,” Donatello observes, spearing a piece of fruit with his fork.
“I’m… enjoying myself,” I admit, startled by the truth.
His mouth curves, slow and satisfied. “Good.”
Later, I stretch out on the sunbed again, silk cover-up brushing my skin.
Donatello lies beside me, one arm folded under his head, the other reaching across the small distance to rest warm against my thigh.
We speak little—just fragments. He asks about the book I was reading.
I ask about his brothers carefully, curiously. He gives me pieces, not the whole.
It feels… normal. Too normal.
The sea rocks the yacht gently. The air smells of salt and citrus from the drinks the steward brings. My eyes grow heavy.
God help me, I think as I drift. I’m happy. I shouldn’t be, but I am.
When I wake, Donatello is still beside me, watching the horizon as if he could command it to bow. His hand hasn’t left my thigh. He turns his head slowly, catching my gaze.
“See? A good day.”
I nod, throat tight, unable to answer. Because he’s right. And every good day with him is another crack in my resolve.