I tilt her chin up, meeting her eyes. “Something strong,” I say, my voice low but warm. “Like you. Maybe Luca for a boy. Or Elena for a girl.”
She laughs, soft and bright, shaking her head. “Those are both too predictable for a Moretti. What about Matteo? Or for a girl, Isabella—she’d be a firecracker like her mom.”
I smirk, pulling her closer, my hand resting on her belly. “Matteo’s not bad. Isabella’s better. But we’ve got time to argue about it.”
She grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, we’ll argue, alright. But I’m winning this one, Moretti.”
I chuckle, kissing her forehead, the weight of her in my arms grounding me. “We’ll see, trouble. We’ll see.”
36
ALARIC
I’m holdinga photograph I found in my drawer. It’s one of Dante at age six, gap-toothed smile and chocolate-stained fingers, holding up a crayon drawing of what he claimed was our family. Three stick figures standing in front of a house with a crooked chimney—him, me, and the mother who’d already started pulling away by then.
“Daddy, do you like my picture?” His voice echoes across seventeen years, bright with the innocent hope I crushed with every harsh lesson, every brutal truth about our world.
I close the drawer and focus on the security reports spread across my desk. Our surveillance team has tracked Boris Petrov’s movements over the past week. The forged signature investigation has yielded three more suspicious documents. And Marco’s increasingly erratic behavior and mysterious phone calls have me worried too.
But my mind keeps drifting to the ultrasound appointment this afternoon. The first time I’ll see our child, even as a grainy image on a monitor.
“Sir?” Benedetto’s voice cuts through my brooding. “The accounting team is here.”
“Send them in.”
Three men enter, each carrying files thick with financial records. I’ve known these accountants for years, trusted them with the family’s most sensitive transactions. Now one of them might be stealing from us.
“Gentlemen,” I begin, studying their faces for tells. “We have a problem.”
For the next hour, I grill them about signature protocols, document handling procedures, and access to sensitive files. Richard Kowalski, our head accountant for twelve years, answers every question with professional competence. David River, younger but equally thorough, provides detailed explanations of our security measures. Thomas Rodriguez, new to the team but highly recommended, seems nervous but genuine.
None of them trigger my instincts for deception.
“That’s all for now,” I dismiss them. “But understand—if these forgeries continue, I’ll assume someone in your department is responsible.”
After they leave, I pour myself a glass of wine and return to the security reports. The forged signatures trouble me less than the pattern they suggest. Someone with intimate access to our operations is systematically undermining us.
My phone buzzes with a text from Dr. Patterson:Appointment moved to 3 PM due to an emergency.
I text back:Understood. We’ll be there.
The “we” part of that sentence represents everything that’s changed in my life. Six months ago, I made decisions alone, considering only the impact on business operations. Now every choice gets filtered through one question: How does this affect Kasimira and our child?
It’s making me weak. Making me sloppy.
Yesterday, I turned down a lucrative contract with the Benedetti family because the job would have required three weeks in Chicago. Too far from home, too long away from her.
Last week, I authorized additional security measures that will cost us fifty thousand dollars a month. Guards who serve no business purpose except to make me feel better about her safety.
I’m becoming everything I despised about weak men who let emotion compromise their judgment.
A knock interrupts my self-flagellation. “Come in.”
Kasimira enters wearing a simple blue dress that doesn’t hide her pregnancy anymore. The subtle curve of her belly is visible now, unmistakable evidence of the life growing inside her.
“Ready for the appointment?” she asks.
“Are you?”
