"No." He moves to the bed, sitting on the edge as he reaches for my face. His fingers cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my skin with infinite gentleness. "You don't worry about this. You don't think about it. You take care of yourself and the baby, and I'll take care of everything else."
He leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead, a kiss that feels like a promise and a goodbye all at once. Then he's standing, moving toward the door where Gianni waits.
"Close the door behind you," I call after them.
Gianni nods once and pulls the door shut as they leave. The click of the latch echoes in the sudden silence, and I'm alone with my thoughts and the knowledge that my uncle now knows my greatest secret.
I sit in the bed for several minutes, staring at the closed door and trying to process what has happened. My life has become a chess game where I am both a player and a piece, moved around by men who think they know what's best for me. But this baby—this tiny life growing inside me—is mine. It's the one thing that belongs to me and me alone.
Finally, I force myself to stand. My legs are unsteady as I walk to the bathroom, my bare feet silent against the cold marble floor. The room is still warm from last night's bath, still smells faintly of lavender and steam.
I turn on the faucet and reach for my toothbrush, thinking that I need to maintain some semblance of normalcy. But as soon as I squeeze the toothpaste onto the bristles, my stomach lurches violently.
I drop the toothbrush and fall to my knees in front of the toilet, retching until there's nothing left but bile and tears. The morning sickness has been getting worse, more frequent, more intense. But this feels different. This feels like my body is trying to purge itself of fear.
I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and the tears come in earnest. They burn down my cheeks relentlessly, carrying with them months of suppressed emotion and terror.
I think about my life before all of this. The careful routine of rehearsals and performances, the controlled interactions with critics and patrons, the quiet evenings in my apartment with nothing but piano music and black coffee. It was lonely, but it was predictable. It was safe.
I wish it could have been different. I wish I could have met Salvatore under different circumstances, in a different world where my last name didn't carry the weight of blood and violence. I wish I could have chosen him freely, without coercion or manipulation or the constant threat of discovery.
But even as I wish for a different past, I can't bring myself to regret what has happened. The baby growing inside me is not a mistake or a consequence. It's a miracle, a piece of hope in a world that has shown me precious little of it.
And Salvatore... despite everything, despite the way this started, I can't regret him either. He sees me in a way that no one else has, looks at me like I'm more than just a pretty voice or a useful tool. He makes me feel alive in ways I never knew were possible.
The problem is that I never had a chance to be myself before this. Emilio has controlled every aspect of my life since I was a child, shaping me into the perfect public face for his criminal empire. I have no idea who I really am beneath the polish and the performance.
I stand slowly, legs still shaking, and splash cold water on my face. The reflection in the mirror looks back at me with red-rimmed eyes and pale skin, but there's something else there too. Something that wasn't there before.
Determination.
I don't want them to fight. I don't want this baby to be born into a world of violence and retribution. But I also won't let anyone—not Emilio, not the opera board, not even Salvatore—make decisions about my life without my input.
I am done being moved around like a chess piece. I am done being protected and controlled and managed.
It's time to take control of my own game.
29
SALVATORE
I'm following Gianni downstairs as the call comes in—three short rings. I answer before the fourth.
Tano's voice crackles through the speaker, tight with controlled panic. "Boss, we have a situation in Ostia."
I'm already moving, pulling on shoes as he talks. My shirt catches on my shoulder holster. "How bad?"
"Three dead. Two trucks burning. Bruno's pinned down near the shoreline."
The line goes dead. I grab my jacket and gun, taking the stairs three at a time. The Maserati is waiting in the drive, engine running, and I floor the accelerator as we tear through the gates and onto the coastal road. Gianni grips the handle over his head for dear life.
Twenty minutes later, I see the smoke.
Black columns rise from the wreckage, visible from half a mile away. The convoy was hit at the perfect spot—a narrow stretch of road with cliffs on one side and rocky beach on the other. No witnesses, no escape routes. Classic ambush positioning.
I count two burning trucks and one overturned sedan. Bodies are scattered across the asphalt, some in our colors, others in Costa black. The smell of gasoline and gunpowder fills the air.
Bruno crouches behind the overturned sedan, automatic rifle trained on a cluster of rocks near the water. Muzzle flashes wink from behind the stones. The bastards are still fighting.
