The date is stamped clearly. The time. Today.
My pulse slams against my ribs.
No baby develops overnight. No life shows up on a screen a day after being conceived.
This child is not mine.
Which means?—
“Matteo?”
Her voice cuts through the fog. I look up and find her standing near the archway, color returning to her cheeks but panic alive in her eyes. She looks stronger than she did a few minutes ago, but guarded, like she’s bracing for impact.
“What are you doing in my bag?” she asks.
I don’t look away. I don’t hide what I found.
“You’re pregnant.”
It’s not a question. The proof crumples slightly in my hand.
“Yes.” The word leaves her in a thin whisper.
“It’s his?”
She nods.
The confirmation should poison something inside me. It should push me back, create distance, force me to guard myself. She is carrying another man’s child—a man I despise, a man who has hurt her in ways I cannot yet quantify. And yet all I feel is an overwhelming urge to go to her, to close the distance, to pull her against my chest and tell her she doesn’t have to be afraid.
“That’s why I needed an hour before coming here,” she says quietly. “I needed to be sure.”
Her color drains again, the same way it did when she ran for the bathroom. She crosses her arms over her chest like she’s protecting herself, or maybe the life inside her, but her voice—God, her voice—is steady, even when the edges tremble.
“That’s why you want to run?” I ask, even though the answer is written all over her face.
“If Giacomo finds out,” she says, “he’ll never let me go. Not because of me, but because of what this means. A child gives himleverage. Power. Something to control. And I will not let my baby become a weapon. I won’t let him use us to trap me forever.”
The fear in her eyes is real. The resolve is stronger.
I set the ultrasound on the counter as if it’s wired to explode, because in many ways, it is.
This changes everything.
“He won’t find out,” I tell her, and the conviction in my voice surprises even me. “I won’t allow him to. But you’re not running, Beatrice. You’re staying right here, in this city. With me.”
Her brows pull tight, confusion clouding her features. “What?”
“I told you I’d protect you and your family, and I meant every word. But now that I know what’s at stake—now that I know you’re carrying his child—I can’t let you disappear. Giacomo will hunt you, Beatrice. He’ll hunt you and your baby. He hates looking like a fool more than he hates his enemies, and if you run, he will follow the scent until he reaches you. He is like a dog with a bone; once he sets his sights on something, he won’t let go.”
Fear widens her eyes.Her arms fold tighter around her body as if she’s bracing against a storm she can’t stop.
I stand and take slow steps toward her.
“So then what?” Her voice fractures. “What am I supposed to do? If I stay here, he’ll kill me.”
“Marry me.”
The words leave me before doubt has the chance to smother them. Before logic can interfere. Before I can ask myself if this is strategy or instinct or something far deeper.
