"One with lots of horses and ice cream trees and libraries in every room." Mila looks up at me with Dante's blue eyes, shining with imagination. "And no mean kings to lock her up."
The innocence in her voice makes me smile. Here I am, trapped in her father's house, carrying his child, and she's spinning fairy tales about princesses who escape their prisons.
"That sounds like a wonderful kingdom," I manage to say.
"Will you help me draw pictures of it?"
I look down at this beautiful little girl who has no idea her father is a dangerous criminal. She sees me as a friend instead of a prisoner and trusts me with her stories and her dreams. If only she knew I would leave her if Dante allowed me to.
In a few months, I’ll be giving birth to her half-sibling.
The thought is both wonderful and terrifying.
"Of course I'll help you draw it," I say, taking her small hand in mine. "Let's go get some paper."
We spend the afternoon creating Mila's perfect kingdom, drawing elaborate castles and magical creatures with her extensive art supplies. She chatters constantly, telling me stories about the people who live in her imaginary world, describing adventures and happy endings with the confidence of someone who's never doubted that good always triumphs.
I want to protect that innocence. I want to make sure she never has to learn that sometimes the king really is mean. And thetower is nothing more than a pretty prison. Sometimes there are no happy endings, no matter how hard you fight for them.
But as I watch her color a picture of a princess riding a unicorn through a forest where nothing bad ever happens, I can't help but think about the baby growing inside me.
Will this child grow up in Mila's innocent world, shielded from the violence and cruelty that pays for their privileged life?
Or will they inherit the darker legacy of their father's world, learning too young that power comes from fear and love is just another form of weakness?
If it’s a boy, will he be expected to learn and participate in the violence?
The thought almost makes me sick. I would never wish Dante’s world on another person, let alone my own child. If I didn’t agree with his ways, would he take my son?
As the afternoon wears on and Dante still doesn't return, my anxiety builds. Maria brings us snacks and drinks, her eyes lingering on me with that same knowing concern. Mila continues her artistic projects, blissfully unaware of the tension radiating from every adult around her.
I sit there, coloring inside the lines of a fantasy kingdom, while inside me a tiny heart beats with the rhythm of a future I can't control.
Soon, I'll have to tell Dante the truth.
Soon, I'll have to face whatever consequences come with carrying the child of Chicago's most dangerous man.
But for now, I focus on Mila's bright chatter and try not to think about how quickly fairy tales can turn into nightmares.
15
HANNAH
I've been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing through an endless loop of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. Every time I close my eyes, I see Dante's face when I finally tell him about the baby. Sometimes he's furious, sometimes cold, sometimes so possessive it makes my skin crawl.
None of the scenarios end well.
At two in the morning, I give up on sleep entirely and slip out of bed, pulling on a silk robe and the fluffy slippers someone thought to buy for me. The house is different at night—quieter but somehow more alive. Like the shadows hold secrets, the daylight forces into hiding.
I walk down the hallway and avoid looking at the portraits. Their painted eyes seem to follow me as I make my way to the main staircase, judging me for falling for their descendant despite everything rational in my brain screaming at me to run.
The kitchen is my destination—maybe some chamomile tea will help settle my nerves. Instead of the kitchen, I'm drawn to the living room where Mila and I spent the afternoon drawing fairy tale kingdoms. Her artwork is still scattered across the coffee table, bright crayon drawings of princesses and unicorns and happy endings.
I sink onto the couch, pulling my legs up under me, and study her pictures in the dim moonlight filtering through the tall windows. There's something achingly innocent about them. I love the way she sees the world as a place where good always wins and love conquers all.
I wonder if my baby will inherit that optimism, or if growing up in Dante's world will teach them that power comes from fear and trust is just another word for weakness.
"Can't sleep?"
