Chapter 22
Her discharge was a battle.
Bianca was physically well enough to leave, but Leo would need to stay in the Neonatal ICU for at least another two weeks… maybe three. His size was the biggest obstacle; he needed to gain weight and strength.
I was in the room while the doctor gave her the discharge instructions. Matteo and Enzo were there, standing guard like sentinels, ready to take her away.
I saw Bianca stiffen and her armor close in around her. Returning to the Villa meant being their sorella, the victim they needed to protect, hidden behind the family’s walls.
I stepped forward, stopping beside her wheelchair, and placed a protective hand on her shoulder.
“She’s staying with me.”
Neither of us spoke.
Enzo turned to me, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.
“No fucking way, she’s going…”
“I’m staying with Marco.” Bianca’s voice cut off Enzo’s. It was faint, but steely.
The two brothers looked at her, stunned. I tried to hide my own shock, keeping my face impassive.
She didn’t look at me; she kept her gaze fixed on the brothers.
“It’s… closer to the hospital.” It was a business excuse, even if it was a lie. The Villa was just as close as my apartment. “I need to be here every day for Leo.”
Matteo studied her; his sharp gaze realized he’d lost the battle against the iron determination in her eyes. The older brother simply nodded, defeated.
***
The ride home to Brera was heavy with everything we couldn’t say.
She didn’t look at me; she just kept her eyes fixed on the window, watching the cobblestone streets and the old buildings of Milan go by.
When the iron gate of the new house opened and I parked in the private courtyard, the mood changed. It shifted from tense to… uncertain.
I walked around the car and opened her door.
As I helped her out, she held herself rigid, fighting to maintain her composure, but when the pain from the incision hit her as she made the effort to stand up, the mask slipped away.
Her hand grabbed my arm with desperate force, digging her nails into the fabric of my shirt.
She let out a low moan and leaned entirely on me.
I took her weight, holding her against my chest, feeling the terrifying fragility of the woman who had always been unbreakable.
I guided her to the first-floor master bedroom; I’d insisted on it so she wouldn’t have to climb stairs.
The room smelled of new wood, fresh lavender, and a tentative promise.
I’d had it redecorated in forty-eight hours, in soft colors, a far cry from the black and chrome of my apartment. It was a sanctuary, not a cell.
“This is it,” I murmured, helping her sit down on the wide bed.
She looked around, taking in the space, the natural light streaming in through the garden doors, and the empty crib waiting in the corner. She didn’t say thank you, but her shoulders relaxed.
***
The next six weeks were a strange, painful, and terribly intimate dance within those new walls.
We established a domestic rhythm that seemed surreal for two CEOs accustomed to corporate battles.
I had become her caregiver. At 7 a.m., I brought her breakfast and painkillers.
At 10 a.m., I’d drive her to the hospital.
We’d spend four hours in the Neonatal ICU, in quiet reverence, taking turns holding Leo skin-to-skin. Then I’d take her home.
I cooked—not in any gourmet sense, but by heating simple, nutritious meals that my housekeeper, Sofia, had prepared in advance.
I felt like an impostor in my own kitchen, serving soup and slicing bread, but I did it with almost religious devotion.
I brought her water, making sure she stayed hydrated while she struggled to establish breastfeeding.
We didn’t talk about ourselves. The new house was neutral territory, and neither of us dared to break the truce. We talked only about him—about the grams Leo was gaining, his checkups, and his future. Our son was the only safe bridge between our separate islands.
“He gained fifty grams today.”
“The nurse said he can try a bottle tomorrow.”
Small acts of care became our only language.
The desire I felt for her hadn’t disappeared. It had changed and become something deeper, darker, and more desperate. It was no longer about possession; it was about love.
I wanted to kiss her C-section scar and worship every change in the woman who had fought to keep our son alive. I wanted to make her forget the Duomo, Silvio, and the beast I had been. Yet I was afraid that one wrong move would send her running away forever.
The night Leo was finally discharged was when everything changed.
He’d been home for four hours. The crib, which I’d assembled with my own hands, was in the master bedroom. Bianca had insisted, saying she wanted to be close to him.
It was three in the morning. The baby was quiet, and I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep.
I got up and walked over to her. The door was ajar.
She was standing with her back to me, facing the glass wall, looking out at the city lights.
She was crying. It wasn’t the sobs of anger I was used to, but quiet, desperate tears streaming down her face.
“Bianca?”
She startled, quickly wiping her face with the backs of her hands.
“I’m fine. I woke up to check on Leo.”
“He’s sleeping,” I said, approaching her slowly. “Are you not okay?”
“I can’t do this, Marco.” The confession was a broken whisper she directed at the glass. “He’s here, and I’m… terrified.”
She looked at me, her green eyes flooded with panic.
“I should feel that… wave. Like Larissa and Priscilla. I should know what to do. But I look at him and I… I’m afraid… of letting him down, of not being enough, and of not being the mother he needs.”
The word “fear” coming from her—the woman of steel—broke something inside me.
I closed the distance between us, holding her shoulders. She felt so fragile beneath my hands.
“You don’t need to be afraid, Bianca,” I whispered. “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”
“I don’t know…”
“You’re tired,” I interrupted, pulling her toward me. She resisted for a second, she went rigid, and then she gave in. Her pride crumbled, and Bianca buried her face in my chest. Her sobs finally came, violent and liberating, muffled against my shirt.
I held her, rocking her gently, resting my chin on the top of her head, breathing in her scent.
“Let me take care of you. Just for a minute, I can be the strong one this time.”
We stayed there for what felt like an eternity, in the middle of the dark room, until her sobs subsided into uneven breaths.
When she pulled away, her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red… and, God, she was beautiful. Her vulnerability was more alluring than any armor she’d ever worn.
I didn’t think. My thumb wiped a tear from her cheek.
“I love you, Bianca.”
The confession hung in the air. It wasn’t the desperate cry from the press conference. It was a private declaration in the darkness of our home.
She looked at me, her parted lips unsteady. She didn’t say it back; she just stood on her tiptoes and kissed me.
It was a kiss salty with tears and exhaustion… gentle and hesitant.
I deepened the kiss, carefully, tasting her relief with my tongue, her pain, and her fear. I lifted her into my arms in an instinctive movement. She gasped, clutching my shoulders.
“Marco… my scar…”
“Shh. I know.” My voice was a hoarse whisper.
I laid her down on the Egyptian cotton sheets; I didn’t rip her clothes off.
I removed them… slowly. The silk robe and the cotton nightgown underneath.
I kissed every inch of skin I exposed: her shoulders, the curve of her neck, and paused at the scar.
The red line, still irritated but healed, that marked her lower abdomen.
I knelt beside the bed. Bianca watched me, her green eyes wide and vulnerable.
I leaned down and kissed the scar, a gentle touch of my lips.
Bianca gasped, a sob escaping her, and tears streamed down her temples.
“Marco…”
“Shh.” I kissed her again, tracing the line from left to right. “It’s beautiful… You’re beautiful.”
I adored every change in her body. I was terrified of hurting her, but consumed by the need to make her feel desired.
I lay down beside her, turning her onto her side, facing me.
I kissed her breasts. They were fuller and more sensitive.
I treated them with reverence, licking and sucking them gently, savoring the taste of her milk and of her, until she arched her back against me, a soft, breathless moan rising from her throat.
“Marco…” she whispered, her voice unsteady.
My hand slid along the curve of her waist, over the softness of her hip, down between her legs. She was already wet… because of me.
I didn’t position myself to take her, but slid down on the bed.
“What… are you doing?” she asked, caught between panic and anticipation.
“Making love to you,” I whispered.
I knelt down and gently spread her legs apart. Then I kissed her pussy, covering it with my mouth.
She moaned, a high-pitched, startled sound. Her hands clutched the sheets. It wasn’t aggressive, but slow… an act of adoration. My tongue found her clitoris, and I sucked on it gently, learning her rhythm, listening to her moans shift from surprise to need.
I held her by the hips, keeping her in place, as I brought her to the brink, showing her my adoration and my desperate love for her.
“Marco… please… I’m going to…”
“Let it come, my love. Come for me.”
Her orgasm was a violent wave. She arched her back, screaming my name in a broken cry of release. She trembled in my hands.
I didn’t stop until she collapsed, gasping and moaning into the pillows.
I climbed back into bed and pulled her against me, laying her on her side with her back against my chest, and wrapped my arms around her, resting my hand on her belly, over the scar.
Our son grumbled in his crib, but didn’t wake up.
I buried my face in her hair.
“I’m here, Bianca,” I whispered in her ear. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”
She took my hand, which was resting on her belly, and intertwined her fingers with mine, squeezing tightly.
Finally, she whispered:
“I love you, too…”